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L’ASSOMMOIR. 


(NANA’S MOTHER.) 




S 


BY EMILE ZOLA. 

» /. 

AUTHOR OP "NANA," " GIRL IN SCARLET," "CLAUDE'S CONFESSION," " HELENS,' 
44 POT-BOUILLE," "THERESE RAQUIN," " THE MYSTERIES OF MARSEILLES," 

44 MAGDALEN FERAT," "A MAD LOVE \ OR, THE ABBE AND HIS COURT," 

"THE MYSTERIES OF THE COURT OF LOUIS NAPOLEON," 

"LA BELLE LISA; OR, THE PARIS MARKET GIRLS," 

"ALBINE; OR, THE ABBE’S TEMPTATION," ETC. 

TRANSLATED BY JOHN STIRLING. 






A 




44 L'Assommoir" is one of the most wonderful novels ever published, and is a photo- 
graphic reproduction of low life in the great French metropolis. Zola takes his subject 
a; he finds it, and reproduces it with the most scrupulous fidelity. The “Assommoir " 
probes to the uttermost depths the springs of degradation and depravity among the lower 
orders of the Parisian population, and the picture presented has not a single touch of 
varnish- He shows Gervaise, her struggles to be an honest woman, her troubles, and 
her final fall into the slough of sin, ending in a pauper's death. He shows Coupeau, at 
first a good citizen and an estimable man, then passing through all the stages of drunken- 
ness to his end by delirium tremens in the hospital. The smooth-tongued Lantier, Nana 
and Goujet, the manly and virtuous blacksmith, are all there. This translation preserves 
all the wonderful conciseness, strength and impressiveness of the original work ; and in 
its four hundred pages there is a constant shifting of the pre-Raphaelite descriptions, so 
powerful in detail, that they appear most vividly before the reader's mental vision. 

jfcoev Rica* j / 4 


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PHILADELPHIA! 

T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS; 

306 CHESTNUT STREET. 


lt*> 3 


copyright: 

T. B. PETERSON &c BROTHERS. 


1882 * 


*h 


} 


LIST OF EMILE ZOLA’S GREAT REALISTIC WORKS. • 

Translated from the French by John Stirling. 

i 

Nana. The Sequel to “ L’Assonimoir.” By Emile Zola, author % 
“ Pot-Bouille," “ L’Assommoir,” etc. With a portrait of “Nana ” on the cover. 


L’Assommoir. By Emile Zola, author of “Nana,” “ Pot-Bonille,” “Albi . 
44 Helene,” etc. With a portrait of 44 Uervaise,” the mother of 44 Nana,” on the ' * 


Pot-Bouille. By Emile Zola, author of 44 Nana,” 44 L’Assommoir,” 44 ITe ! 
Mad Love,” 44 The Girl in Scarlet,” “ La Belle Lisa,” etc. With an Illustr 


Claude’s Confession. By Emile Zola , author of “ Nana," 44 L’ Assmnmoir ,” 44 Pot- 

Bouille,” “The Girl in Scarlet,” 44 La Belle Lisa,” 44 llelene," “A Mad Love,” etc. 

. 


The Mysteries of the Court of Louis Napoleon. By Emil* Zola, 
author of “ Nana,” 44 L’Assommoir,” 44 Pot-Bouille,” 44 Helene,” 44 A Mad Love,” etc. 


The Mysteries of Marseilles. By Emile Zola, author of “ L’Assommoir,” 
44 Nana," “Pot-Bouille,” “The Girl in Scarlet,” 44 La Belle Lisa,” “Helene,” etc. 


The Girl in Scarlet: or. The Loves of Silvere and Miette. By 

Emile Zola, author of 44 Nana," 44 L’Assommoir," 44 Pot-Bouille," 4 VAlbine," etc. 


Albine; or. The Abbe’s Temptation. By Emile Zola , author of 44 Nana," 
44 L’Assommoir," 44 The Girl in Scarlet," etc. With a portrait of 44 Albine" on cover. 


A Mad Love; or. The Abbe and His Court. By Emile Zola, author of 
“Nana," 44 L’A^soramoir," 44 Pot-Bouille," “The Girl in Scarlet," 44 Helene," etc. 


Helene, a Love Episode; or, Cue I»a$;*e IV Amour. By Emile Zola, t 
author of 44 Nana,” 44 Pot-Bouille," etc. With a portrait of 44 Helene " on the cover. 


La Belle Lisa: or. The Paris Market Girls. By Emile Zola, author 
of 44 Nana," 44 L’Assommoir,” 44 Pot-Bouille,” “The Girl iu Scarlet," “Albine,” etc. 


Magdalen Ferat. By Emile Zola * a\ctlIor of 44 Nana," “ L’Assommoir,” “Pot- 
BouUle,” “The Gill in Scarlet,” “ La Lisa,” 14 Helene,” “Albine," etc. 


Therese Raqnin. A Novel. By Emile Zola , author of 44 Nana," “L’Assommoir,” 
44 Pot-Bouille," “The Girl in Scarlet,” “La Belle Lisa,” 44 Helene,” “Albine,” etc. 


Nana’s Daughter. Sequel to 44 Zola's Nana." Nana’s Daughter. With 
an Illustrated Cover with Portraits of the Heroines in the work. 

1 


PREFACE. 


I T is deemed advisable by the publishers and 
translator of this most extraordinary work, 
that a few words should be said in regard to the 
author, who is comparatively unknown in this 
country, although his works and himself, have 
been for the last ten years the subject of endless 
discussion and controversy in the literary circles 
of Paris. 

Monsieur Emile Zola is of Italian parentage, 
but a Frenchman by birth. His father was an 
engineer of considerable ability and no little rep- 
utation — a canal in the South of France still 
bears his name. On the death of his father, the 
lad and his mother finding themselves destitute, 
took their way to Paris with the idea that they 
could at least find there, bread to eat. 

Even this bread, however, was by no means so 

(ii) 


12 


PREFACE. 


easy to win, for they struggled long with poverty* 
privations and disappointments. 

Finally there was a ray of hope, for the youth 
succeeded in obtaining employment in the pub- 
lishing house of Hachette — his duties, however^, 
were simply to tie up brown paper parcels. 

The atmosphere of this publishing house seems? 
nevertheless, to have fostered his literary aspira- 
tions, for we soon find him writing a poem which 
he lays stealthily on his master’s desk, and him- 
self passes a wakeful night, in dread how it may 
have been received. 

This was the entering wedge, for his employer, 
recognizing a certain element of cleverness in the 
boyish work, at once placed the youth in the 
advertising department of the house. 

This brought Zola in contact with the journals, 
and then came plain sailing. He wrote — he 
published ; and seeing before him a fair prospect 
of success in the field of literature, he left 
Hachette and went on to the Figaro. 

He of course made a host of friends among 
men as young as himself — he is yet under forty 


PREFACE. 


13 


— but chiefly consorted with Alphonse Daudet, 
Flaubert, and the two Goncourts — disciples of the 
realistic school, who took Nature for the sole 
exponent of their creed. These men talked, 
while Zola listened, and endeavored to imbue 
every stroke of his work with the inspiration 
derived from what he heard. At last his novels 
appeared — quietly, and without any flourish of 
trumpets. 

These novels were the result of long study and 
careful observation, of notes taken down on the 
spot, interspersed with phrases and bits of 
dialogue, inscribed as they fell hot from the lips 
of the speaker — of physiological studies — and 
extracts from medical reports. 

Zola’s way of working is peculiar. He selects 
a subject — his plot being quite a secondary con- 
sideration. To work out this subject he spares 
no pains — he studies it all in its minutest details. 
If he wants a character or a class for a book, he 
goes out and looks for it, accepting no report at 
second hand. 

In his “ Nana,” now in press, and to be pub- 


14 


PREFACE. 


lished by us, he is called upon to give a glimpse 
of theatrical life; he, therefore, has spent much 
time of late behind the scenes of a theatre. In 
his years of trial and privation he undoubtedly 
accumulated a great store of observation, on which 
he can draw at will, during the rest of his life. 

The end and aim of Monsieur Zola is to make 
all art — dramatic, narrative and pictorial — only 
another word for Nature, so that it may tend to a 
moral end, as all great writers invariably tend by 
their own proper force. 

It has been rather the fashion in this country 
to drop the voice and shrug the shoulders when 
Zola’s name is heard, as if he were the prophet of 
all uncleanness. But this is sheer ignorance and 
lack of appreciation of the real meaning of Zola’s 
works. Never once does this author make vice 
attractive. He paints it in all its hideous reality, 
and unquestionably calls “a spade a spade.” lie 
says distinctly : “ Thus and thus do men and 
women behave under certain circumstances.” His 
text, on which he preaches in “ L’Assommoir,” is 
drunkenness, and true to his theory and manner 


PREFACE. 


15 


of looking at a subject, Monsieur Zola does not 
content himself with showing its effects on the 
moral nature alone, hut goes still further, and 
gives a ghastly, appalling picture of this repulsive 
and disgusting vice. 

We close the volume faint and sick at heart, as 
we realize how many women in our own land are 
made as wretched as Gervaise, and how many 
homes are blighted by this terrible evil. As a 
picture of the woe and degradation springing 
from drunkenness, “ L’Assommoir ” is without a 
rival in modern fiction. 

That the critics have violently assailed it, and 
Zola, cannot surprise any one, more particularly 
as a violent controversy has lately grown out of 
his connection with a Russian review, for novel 
writing occupies but a small portion of his life — 
only three hours each day. 

He had the excessive imprudence to write for 
this Russian review a series of articles criticizing 
his contemporaries with perilous frankness, Al- 
phonse Daudet, Flaubert and De Goncourt, his 
early associates — alone finding favor in his eyes, 


1G 


PREFACE. 


while he dismissed the others with a lofty air of 
superiority as mere phrasemongers who fail to see 
what is before them, and are unable to depict 
even what they see. 

Neither did he content himself with this on- 
slaught upon the novelists ; he also attacked the 
dramatists through the medium of the Figaro, of 
which paper he is the dramatic critic. He stoutly 
^asserted that the modern French plays were as 
fantastically false to Nature as were the novels. 
To emphasize his theories, he rashly determined 
to put some realistic dramas on the stage. This 
he did, finding however, to his infinite disgust, 
that they were one and all, utter failures. 

Believing and saying that this result was due 
to his enemies and a cabal, he finally sanctioned a 
dramatic adaptation of “L’Assommoir,” which was 
marvellously brought out in Paris, at the Ambigu, 
the part of Coupeau, a wonderful piece of acting, 
being taken by the Belgian actor, Gil Nasa, who 
is said to have once been a physician, and also to 
have studied the dreadful details of delirium 
tremens, at the hospital of Sainte-Anne. The 


PREFACE. 


17 


f 


.vous tremors, the twitching hands, the terror 
mown at the sight of the brandy-bottle, one draught 
from which the physician had warned him would 
prove fatal, then the slow approach as if fasci- 
nated, the greedy absorption of the coveted drink, 
and then the wild ravings of the end, when 
“Coupeau” dies, shrieking and struggling and 
fighting to the last with the fiends and reptiles 
that he sees around him — was marvellously done, 
and was dreadful to see. 

The house on the evening of the first repre- 
sentation of “ L’ ^ssommoir ” was crowded, for 
curiosity was n.^nsely aroused to witness the re- 
presentation on the stage, of a novel that had 
had a sale already of over One Hundred Thou- 
sand Copies. The interest and excitement of the 
house was very great, increasing as the play went 
on. Ladies rose hastily and left the theatre, others 
fainted, the representation, possibly, bringing too 
vividly before their eyes the grim tragedies and 
wretched mysteries of their own homes. The 
play, nevertheless, was a great success, owing to 
the terrible truthfulness of its pictures of the 


13 


PREFACE. 


slow degradation and certain ruin brought about 
by drunkenness. 

The play and the novel alike represent the 
debasing effects of alcohol on the habits and mor- 
als of those who, by Nature, are pure at heart and 
honest in their lives. 

The Parisian workman, who resorts to the cor- 
ner grog-shop for his daily stimulant, knows that 
the liquor he there imbibes, will as surely “ lay 
him out” as will a blow from a loaded bludgeon, 
and in his slang — for the working classes of Paris 
are as figurative in their language as is the red 
man of the West — gave to a drinking-shop where 
a still was displayed, the name of “ L’Assommoir,” 
which, translated literally, means “The Loaded 
Bludgeon.” 

With this explanation the reader will have no 
difficulty in understanding why the translator has 
preserved Zola’s original title to this work, the 
full meaning of which is too subtle to be con- 
veyed in any English word. 


JOHN STIRLING. 


CONTENTS 


niAPTEB PAGB 

I. GERVAISE 21 

II. GERVAISE AND COUPEAU 60 

III. A MARRIAGE OF THE PEOPLE 96 

IV. A IIAPPY HOME 122 

V. A3IBITIOUS DREAMS 149 

VI. GOUJET AT HIS FORGE 169 

VII. A BIRTHDAY FETE 187 

VIII. AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE 214 

IX. CLOUDS IN THE HORIZON 252 

X. DISASTERS AND CHANGES 284 

XI. LITTLE NANA 315 

XII. POVERTY AND DEGRADATION 342 

XIII. THE HOSPITAL 366 


( 19 ) 


FROM THE “LONDON WORLD.' 


** If a Translator could be found, with sufficient literarj 
ability, combined with tact, delicacy and refinement, to 
place ‘ L’Assommoir ’ before the public in an English garb 
— it would do infinitely more good to the cause of Tem- 
perance and Total Abstinence, than all the fanatical utter- 
ances of the disciples of the Temperance cause. That 
‘ L’Assommoir ’ needs a certain amount of judicious pru- 
ning is unquestionable; certain touches of hideous realism 
under which even Paris grew restive, must be omitted — 
or smoothed over ; to do this, and not weaken the book, 
would be an arduous undertaking — but that it can be 
done we believe — and that it should be done — we advise.” 


The publishers of this volume believe, that in offering 
the present version of “ L’Assommoir ” to the American 
Public, as translated by John Stirling, they have fulfilled 
all the suggestions and requirements contained in the 
above editorial notice copied from the “ London World,” 
and their most earnest desire is that it will fulfil its 
mission. 

( 20 ) 


L’ASSOMMOIR. 

(NANA’S MOTHER.) 

BY EMILE ZOLA. 

AUTHOR OF “ NANA," “ GIRL IN SCARLET," “ CLAUDE'S CONFESSION,” ‘‘HELENE,” 
“ POT-BOUILLE,” “tHEKF.SE KAQUIN,” “ THE MYSTERIES OF MARSEILLES,” 
“MAGDALEN FEKA T,” “A MAD LOVE; OR, THE ABBE AND HIS COURT,” 

‘‘THE MYSTERIES OF THE COURT OF LOUIS NAPOLEON,” 

“LA BELLE lisa; OR, THE PARIS MARKET GIRLS,” 

“ALBINE ; OR, THE ABBE’S TEMPTATION,” BTC. 

TRANSLATED BY JOHN STIRLING. 




CHAPTER I. 


GERVAISE. 


G ERVAISE had waited and watched for Lantier 
until two in the morning. Then, chilled and shiv- 
ering she turned from the window and threw herself 
across the bed, where she fell into a feverish doze with 
her cheeks wet with tears. For the last week when 
they came out of the Veau d deux tetes where they ate, 
he had sent her off to bed with the children, and had 
not appeared until lat.e into the night, and always with 
a story that he had been looking for work. 

This very night, while she was watching for his return, 
she fancied she saw him enter the ball room of the 

( 21 ) 


22 


l’assommoir. 


Grand-Balcon, whose ten windows blazing with lights 
illum : nated as with a sheet of fire, the black lines of the 
outer Boulevards. She caught a glimpse of Adele, a 
pretty brunette who dined at their restaurant, and who 
was walking a few steps behind him, with her hands 
swinging as if she had just dropped his arm, rather than 
pass before the bright light of the globes over the door, 
in his company. 

When Gervaise awoke about five o’clock, stiff and 
sore, she burst into wild sobs, for Lantier had not come 
in. For the first time he had slept out. She sat on the 
edge of the bed, half shrouded in the canopy of faded 
chintz that hung from the arrow fastened to the ceiling 
by a string. Slowly, with her eyes suffused with tears, 
she looked around this miserable c. l *e garnie , whose 
furniture consisted of a chestnut bureau of which one 
drawer was absent, three straw chairs and a greasy 
table, on which was a broken handled pitcher. 

Another bedstead — an iron one — had been brought 
in for the children. This stood in front of the bureau 
and filled up two-thirds of the room. 

A trunk belonging to Gervaise and Lantier stood 
in the corner wide open, showing its empty sides, while 
at the bottom a man’s old hat lay among soiled shirts 
and hose. Along the walls, and on the backs of the 
chairs, hung a ragged shawl, a pair of muddy pantaloons 
and a dress or two — all too bad for the old clothes man 
to buy. In the middle of the mantel between two 
mismated tin candlesticks was a bundle of pawn tickets 


l’assommoir. 


23 


from the Mont-de-Piet^. These tickets were of a deli- 
cate shade of rose. 

The room was the best in the hotel — the first flooi 
looking out on the Boulevard. 

Meanwhile side by side on the same pillow, the twc 
children lay calmly sleeping. Claude, who was eight 
years old, was breathing calmly and regularly with his 
little hands outside of the coverings, while Etienne, 
only four, smiled with one arm under his brother’s neck. 

When their mother’s eyes fell on them she had a new 
paroxysm of sobs, and pressed her handkerchief to her 
mouth to stifle them. Then with bare feet, not stopping 
to put on her slippers which had fallen off, she ran to 
the window, out of which she leaned as she had done 
half the night, and inspected the sidewalks as far as 
she could see. 

The hotel was on the Boulevard de la Chapelle, at 
the left of the Barridre Poissonnidrs. It was a two 
story building, painted a deep red up to the first floor, 
and had disjointed weather-stained blinds. 

Above a lantern with glass sides, was a sign between 
the two windows : 

HOTEL BONCCEUR, 

KEPT BY 

MARSOULLIER. 

in large yellow letters, partially obliterated by the 
dampness. Gervaise, who was prevented by the lan- 
tern from seeing as she desired, leaned out still further, 


24 


l’assommoir. 


with her handkerchief on her lips. She looked to the 
right toward the Boulevard de Rochechoumart, where 
groups of butchers stood with their bloody frocks 
before their establishments, and the fresh breeze 
brought in whiffs, a strong animal smell — the smell 
of slaughtered cattle. 

She looked to the left, following the ribbon-like 
avenue, past the Hospital de Lariboisidre, then 
building. Slowly, from one end to the other of the 
horizon, did she follow the wall, from behind which in 
the night time, she had heard strange groans and cries, 
as if some fell murder were being perpetrated. She 
looked at it with horror, as if in some dark corner — 
dark with dampness and filth — she should distinguish 
Lantier, — Lantier lying dead with his throat cut. 

When she gazed beyond this gray and interminable 
wall she saw a great light, a golden mist waving and 
shimmering with the dawn of a new Parisian day. But 
it was to the Barri&re Poissonniers that her eyes persist- 
ently returned — watching dully the uninterrupted flow 
of men and cattle, wagons and sheep which came down 
from Montmartre and from la Chapelle. There were 
scattered flocks dashed like waves on the sidewalk by 
some sudden detention, and an endless succession of 
laborers going to their work with their tools over their 
shoulders and their loaves of bread under their arms. 

Suddenly Gervaise thought she distinguished Lantier 
amid this crowd, and she leaned eagerly forward at the 
risk of falling from the window. With a fresh pang 


w 


25 


l’assommoie. 

of disappointment she pressed her handkerchief to her 
lips to restrain her sobs. 

A fresh, youthful voice caused her to turn around : 

“ Lantier has not come in then ? ” 

“No, Monsieur Coupeau,” she answered, trying to 
6mile. 

The speaker was a tinsmith who occupied a tiny room 
at the top of the house. His bag of tools was over his 
shoulder ; he had seen the key in the door and entered 
with the familiarity of a friend. 

“You know,” he continued, “that I am working 
now-a-days at the Hospital. What a May this is ! The 
air positively stings one this morning.” 

As he spoke he looked closely at Gervaise ; he saw 
her eyes were red with tears, and then glancing at the 
bed, discovered that it had not been disturbed. He 
shook his head, and going toward the couch where the 
children lay with their rosy cherub faces, he said in a 
lower voice : 

“ You think your husband ought to have been with 
you, Madame. But don’t be troubled, he is busy with 
politics. He went on like a mad man the other day 
when they were voting for Eugene Sue. Perhaps he 
passed the night with his friends abusing that reprobate, 
Bonaparte.” 

“ No, no,” she murmured, with an effort. “ You think 
nothing of that kind. I know where Lantier is only 
too well. We have our sorrows like the rest of the 
world ! ” 


2 


26 


l’assommoir. 



Coupeau gave a knowing wink and departed, having 
offered to bring her some milk if she did not care to go 
out ; she was a good woman, he told her, and might 
count on him any time when she was in trouble. 

As soon as Gervaise was alone, she returned to the 
window. 

From the Barriere, the lowing of the cattle and the 
bleating of the sheep still came on the keen, fresh 
morning air. Among the crowd, she recognized the 
locksmiths by their blue frocks, the masons by their 
white overalls, the painters by their coats, from under 
which hung their blouses. This crowd was cheerless. 
All of neutral tints — grays and blues predominating, 
with never a dash of color. Occasionally a workman 
stopped and lighted his pipe, while his companions 
passed on. There was no laughing, no talking, but 
they strode on steadily with cadaverous faces, toward 
that Paris which quickly swallowed them up. 

At the two corners of La Rue des Poissonnidrs were 
two wine shops, where the shutters had just been taken 
down. Here some of the workmen lingered, crowding 
into the shop, spitting, cougliing, and drinking glasses 
of brandy and water. Gervaise was watching the place 
on the left of the street, where she thought she had 
seen Lantier go in, when a stout woman, bareheaded, and 
wearing a large apron, called to her from the pavement, 

“ You are up early ! Madame Lantier ! ” 

Gervaise leaned out. 

“Ah! Is it you, Madame Boche! Yes, I am up 
early, for I have much to do to-day.” 


l’assommoir. 


27 


“Is that so? Well, things don’t get done by them- 
selves, that’s sure ! ” 

And a conversation ensued between the window and 
the sidewalk. Madame Boche was the Concierge oi 
the house wherein the restaurant du Veau d Deux 
Tetes occupied the rez de ehauss^e. 

Many times Gervaise had waited for Lantier in the 
room of this woman, rather than face the men who were 
eating. The Concierge said she had just been round 
the corner to arouse a lazy fellow who had promised to 
do some work, and then went on to speak of one of her 
lodgers who had come in the night before with some 
woman, and had made such a noise that every one was 
disturbed until after three o’clock. 

As she gabbled however, she examined Gervaise 
with considerable euriosity, and seemed, in fact, to 
have come out under the window for that express pur- 
pose. 

“ Is Monsieur Lantier still asleep?” she asked sud- 
denly. 

“ Yes, he is asleep,” answered Gervaise, with flushing 
cheeks. 

Madame saw the tears come to her ey r es, and satisfied 
with her discovery was turning away, when she sud- 
denly stopped and called out : 

“ You are going to the lavatory this morning, are you 
not ? All right then, I have some things to wash, and 
I will keep a place for you next to me, and we can have 
a little talk ! ” 


28 


l’assommoir 


Then as if moved by sudden compassion, she added : 

“ Poor child! — don’t stay at that window any longer. 
You are purple with cold, and will surely make yourself 
sick ! ” 

But Gervaise did not move. She remained in the 
same spot for two mortal hours, until the clock struck 
eight. The shops were now all open. The procession 
in blouses had long ceased, and only an occasional one 
hurried along. At the wine shops however, there was 
the same crowd of men drinking, spitting, and cough- 
ing. The workmen in the street had given place to the 
workwomen. Milliner’s apprentices, florists, burnishers, 
who with thin shawls drawn closely around them, 
came in bands of three or four, talking eagerly, with 
gay laughs and quick glances. Occasionally one soli- 
tary figure was seen, a pale-faced, serious woman, who 
walked rapidly, neither looking to the right nor to the 
left. 

Then came the clerks, blowing on their fingers to 
warm them, eating a roll as they walked ; young men, 
lean and tall, with clothing they had outgrown, and 
with eyes heavy with sleep ; old men, who moved along 
with measured steps, occasionally pulling out their 
watches, but able, from many years’ practice, to time 
their movements almost to a second. 

The Boulevards at last w r ere comparatively quiet. 
The inhabitants were sunning themselves. Women with 
untidy hair and soiled petticoats were nursing their 
babies in the open air, and an occasional dirty-faced 


l’assommoir. 29 

brat fell into the gutter, or rolled over with shrieks 
of pain or joy. 

Gervaise felt faint and ill — all hope was gone. It 
seemed to her that all was over, and that Lantier 
would come no more. She looked from the dingy 
slaughter houses, black with their dirt and loathsome 
odor, on to the new and staring Hospital, and into the 
rooms consecrated to Disease and Death. As yet, the 
windows were not in, and there was nothing to impede 
her views of the large, empty wards. The sun shone 
directly in her face and blinded her. 

She was sitting on a chair, with her arms dropping 
drearily at her side, but not weeping, when Lantier 
quietly opened the door and walked in. 

“ You have come ! ” she cried, ready to throw herself 
on his neck. 

“Yes, I have come,” he answered, “and what of it? 
Don’t begin any of your nonsense, now ! ” — and he 
pushed her aside. Then, with an angry gesture, he 
tossed his felt hat on the bureau. 

He was a small, dark fellow, handsome and well 
made, with a delicate moustache, which he twisted in 
his fingers mechanically as he spoke. He wore an old 
coat, buttoned tightly at the waist, and spoke with a 
strongly marked Proven$al accent. 

Gervaise had dropped upon her chair again, and 
uttered disjointed phrases of lamentation. 

“ I have not closed my eyes — I thought you were 
killed ! Where have you been all night ? I feel as if I 


so 


l’assommoir. 


were going mad ! Tell me, Auguste, where have yon 
been ? ” 

“Oh! I had business,” he answered, with an in- 
different shrug of his shoulders. “ At eight o’clock, I 
had an engagement with that friend, you know, who is 
thinking of starting a manufactory of hats. I was de- 
tainei, and I preferred stopping there. But you know 
I don’t like to be watched and catechised. J ust let me 
alone, will you ? ” 

His wife began to sob. Their voices, and Lantier’s 
noisy movements, as he pushed the chairs about, woke 
the children. They started up, half naked, with tum- 
bled hair, and hearing their mother cry, they followed 
her example, rending the air with their shrieks. 

“ Well, this is lovely music ! ” cried Lantier, furious- 
ly. I warn you, if you don’t all stop, that out of this 
door I go, and you won’t see me again in a hurry! 
Will you hold your tongue? Good-bye, then ; I’ll go 
back where I came from.” 

He snatched up his hat, but Gervaise rushed toward 
him, crying: 

“No! no!” 

And she soothed the children and stifled their cries 
with kisses, and laid them tenderly back in their bed, 
and they were soon happy, and merrily playing to- 
gether. Meanwhile the father, not even taking off his 
boots, threw himself on the bed with a weary air. His 
face was white from exhaustion and a sleepless night ; 
he did not close his eyes, but looked around the room. 


l’assommoir. 


31 


“ A nice looking place, this! ” he muttered, 

Then examining Gervaise, he said, half aloud and 
half to himself : 

“ So ! you have given up washing yourself, it seems ! ” 

Gervaise was only twenty-two. She was tall and 
slender, with delicate features, already worn by hard- 
ships and anxieties. With her hair uncombed and 
shoes down at heel, shivering in her white sack, on 
which was much dust and many stains from the furni- 
ture and wall where it had hung, she looked at least 
ten years older from the hours of suspense and tears 
she had passed. 

Lantier’s words startled her from her resignation and 
timidity. 

“ Are you not ashamed ? ” she said with considerable 
animation. “ You know very well that I do all I can. 
It is not my fault that we came here. I should like to 
see you with two children, in a place where you can’t 
get a drop of hot water. We ought as soon as we 
reached Paris to have settled ourselves at once in a 
home, that was what you promised.” 

“ Pshaw,” he muttered ; “ you had as much good as 
I had out of our savings. You ate the fatted calf with 
me — and it is not worth while to make a row about it 
now ! ” 

She did not heed his words, but continued : 

“ There is no need of giving up either. I saw Mad- 
ame Fauconnier, the laundress in La Rue Neuve. She 
will take me Monday. If you go in with your friend 


32 


l’assommoir 


we shall be afloat again ip six months. We must find 
some kind of a hole where we can live cheaply while 
we work. That is the thing to do now. Work ! work ! ” 

Lantier turned his face to the wall with a shrug of 
disgust which enraged his wife, who resumed : 

“ Yes, I know very well that you don’t like to work. 
You would like to wear fine clothes and walk about the 
streets all day. You don’t like my looks since you took 
all my dresses to the pawnbrokers. No, no, Auguste, 
I did not intend to speak to you about it, but I know 
very well where you spent the night. I saw you go 
into the Grand-Baleon with that street walker, Adele. 
You have made a charming choice. She wears fine 
clothes and is clean. Yes, and she has reason to be 
certainly, there is not a man in that restaurant who does 
not know her far better than an honest girl should be 
known ! ” 

Lantier leaped from the bed. His eyes were a? black 
as night and his face deadly pale. 

“ Yes,” repeated his wife, “ I mean what T say. 
Madame Boche will not keep her or her sister in the 
house any longer, because there are always a crowd of 
men hanging on the stair-case.” 

Lantier lifted both fists, and then conquering a vio- 
lent desire to beat her, he seized her in his arms, shook 
her violently and threw her on the bed where the chil- 
dren were. They at once began to cry again, while he 
stood for a moment, and then, with the air of a man who 
finally takes a resolution in regard to which he has 
hesitated, he said : 


l’assommoir. 33 

“ You do not know what you have done, Gervaise. 
You are wrong — as you will soon discover.” 

For a moment the voices of the children filled the 
room. Their mother lying on their narrow couch held 
them both in her arms, and said over and over again in 
a monotonous voice : 

“ If you were not here, my poor darlings ! if you 
were not here ! If you were not here ! ” 

Lantier was lying flat on his back with his eyes fixed 
on the ceiling. He was not listening ; his attention was 
concentrated on some fixed idea. He remained in this 
way for an hour and more — not sleeping in spite of his 
evident and intense fatigue. When he turned and 
leaning on his elbow looked about the room again, he 
found that Gervaise had arranged the chamber and 
made the children’s bed. They were washed and dressed. 
He watched her as she swept the room and dusted the 
furniture. 

The room was very dreary still however, with its 
smoke-stained ceiling, and paper discolored by damp- 
ness, and three chairs and dilapidated bureau, whose 
greasy surface no dusting could clean. Then while she 
washed herself and arranged her hair before the small 
mirror, he seemed to examine her arms and shoulders, 
as if instituting a comparison between herself and some 
one else. And he smiled a disdainful little smile. 

Gervaise was slightly, very slightly lame, but her 
lameness was perceptible only on such days as she 
was very tired. This morning, so weary was she from 


34 l’assommoir. 

the watches of the night, that she could hardly walk 
without support. 

A profound silence reigned in the room — they did 
not speak to each other. He seemed to be waiting for 
something. She, adopting an unconcerned air, seemed 
to be in haste. 

She made up a bundle of soiled linen that had been 
thrown into a corner behind the trunk, and then he 
spoke : 

“ What are you doing ? Are you going out ? ” 

At first she did not reply. Then when he angrily 
repeated the question she answered : 

“Certainly I am. I am going to wash all these 
things. The children cannot live in dirt.” 

He threw two or three handkerchiefs toward her, and 
after another long silence he said : 

“ Have you any money ? ” 

She quickly rose to her feet and turned toward him , 
in her hand she held some of the soiled clothes. 

“ Money ! Where should I get money unless I had 
stolen it ? You know very well that day before yester- 
day you got three francs on my black skirt. We have 
breakfasted twice on that, and money goes fast. No, I 
have no money. I have four sous for the Lavatory. I 
cannot make money like other women we know.” 

He did not reply to this allusion, but rose from the 
bed, and passed in review the ragged garments hung 
around the room. He ended by taking down the pan- 
taloons and the shawl and opening the bureau took out 


l’assommoir. 


35 


a sacque and two chemises. All these he made into a 
bundle, which he threw at Gervaise. 

“ Take them,” he said, “ and make haste back from 
the pawnbroker’s.” 

“Would you not like me to take the children ?” she 
asked. “ Heavens ! if pawnbrokers would only make 
loans on children, what a good thing it would be ! ” 

She went to the Mont-de-Pidt6, and when she re- 
turned, a half hour later, she laid a silver five-franc 
piece on the mantel-shelf, and placed the ticket with 
the others between the two candlesticks. 

“ This is what they gave me,” she said, coldly. “ I 
wanted six francs, but they would not give them. 
They always keep on the safe side there, and yet there 
is always a crowd.” 

Lantier did not at once take up the money. He had 
sent her to the Mont-de-Pidt6, that he might not leave 
her without food or money, but when he caught sight 
of part of a ham wrapped in paper on the table, with 
half a loaf of bread, he slipped the silver piece into his 
vest pocket. 

“ I did not dare go to the milk-woman,” explained 
Gervaise, “ because we owe her for eight days. But I 
shall be back early. You can get some bread and some 
shops, and have them ready. Don’t forget the wine, 
too.” 

He made no reply. Peace seemed to be made, but 
when Gervaise went to the trunk to take out some of 
Lantier’s clothing, he called out : 


36 


l’assommoir. 


“No — let that alone.” 

“ What do you mean ? ” she said, turning round in 
surprise. “You can’t wear these things again until 
they are washed ! Why shall I not take them ? ” 

And she looked at him with some anxiety. He 
angrily tore the things from her hands and threw them 
back into the trunk. 

“ Confound you ! ” he muttered. “ Will you never 
learn to obey ? When I say a thing I mean it ” 

“But why?” she repeated, turning very pale, and 
seized with a terrible suspicion. “You do not need 
these shirts — you are not going away. Why should I 
not take them ? ” 

He hesitated a moment, uneasy under the earnest 
gaze she fixed upon him. 

“Why? Why? Because,” he said, “I am sick of 
hearing you say that you wash and mend for me. 
Attend to your own affairs, and I will attend to mine.” 

She entreated him = — defended herself from the charge 
of ever having complained — but he shut the trunk 
with a loud bang, and then sat down upon it, repeating 
that he was master at least of his own clothing. Then, 
to escape from her eyes, he threw himself again on 
the bed, saying he was sleepy, and that she made his 
head ache, and finally slept, or pretended to do so. 

Gervaise hesitated, she was tempted to give up her 
plan of going to the Lavatory, and thought she would 
sit down to her sewing. But at last she was reassured 
by Lantier’s regular breathing, she took her soap and 


l’assommoir. 


37 


her ball of blueing, and going to the children, who were 
playing on the floor with some old corks, she said in a 
low voice : 

“ Be very good, and keep quiet. Papa is sleeping.” 

When she left the room there was not a sound 
except the stifled laughter of the little ones. It was 
then after ten, and the sun was shining brightly in at 
the window. 

Gervaise, on reaching the Boulevard, turned to the 
left and followed the Rue de la Goutte-d’Or. As she 
passed Madame Fauconnier’s shop, she nodded to the 
woman. The Lavatory, whither she went, was in the 
middle of this street, just where it begins to ascend. 
Over a large low building towered three enormous 
reservoirs for water, huge cylinders of zinc strongly 
made, and in the rear was the drying room, an apart- 
ment with very high ceiling, and surrounded by blinds 
through which the air passed. On the right of the 
reservoirs a steam engine let off regular puffs of white 
smoke. Gervaise, habituated apparently to puddles, 
did not lift her skirts, but threaded her way through 
the part of Eau de Javelle which encumbered the door- 
way. She knew the mistress of the establishment, a 
little delicate woman, who sat in a cabinet with glass 
doors, surrounded by soap and blueing, and packages 
of bicarbonate of soda. 

As Gervaise passed the desk, she asked for her brush 
and beater, which she had left to be taken care of after 
her last wash. Then, having taken her number, she 


38 


l’assommoir. 


went in. It was an immense shed, as it were, with a 
low ceiling — the beams and rafters unconcealed — and 
lighted by large windows, through which the daylight 
streamed. A light gray mist or steam pervaded the 
room, which was filled with a smell of soap suds and 
eau de javelle combined. Along the central aisle were 
tubs on either side, and two rows of women with their 
arms bare to the shoulders, and their skirts tucked up, 
stood showing their colored stockings and stout laced 
shoes. 

They rubbed and pounded furiously, straightening 
themselves occasionally to utter a sentence, and then 
applying themselves again to their task, with the steam 
and perspiration pouring down their red faces. There 
was a constant rush of water from the faucets, a great 
splashing as the clothes were rinsed, and pounding and 
banging of the beaters, while amid all this noise the 
steam engine in the corner kept up its regular puffing. 

Gervaise went slowly up the aisle, looking to the 
right and the left. She carried her bundle under her 
arm and limped more than usual, as she was pushed and 
jarred by the energy of the women about her. 

“ Here ! this way, my dear,” cried Madame Boche. 
and when the young woman had joined her at the very 
end where she stood, the Concierge, without stopping 
her furious rubbing, began to talk in a steady fashion. 

“ Yes, this is your place. I have kept it for you. I 
have not much to do. Boche is never hard on his 
Linen, and you, too, do not seem to have much. Youi 


l’assommoir. 


39 


package is quite small. We shall finish by noon, and 
then we can get something to eat. I used to give my 
clothes to a woman in La Rue Pelat, but bless my 
heart ! she washed and pounded them all away ; and I 
made up my mind to wash myself. It is clear gain, 
you see, and costs only the soap.” 

Grervaise opened her bundle and sorted the clothes, 
laying aside all the colored pieces, and when Madame 
Boche advised her to try a little soda, she shook her 
head. 

“ No, no ! ” she said, “ I know all about it! ” 

“You know?” answered Boche, curiously. “You 
have washed then, in your own place, before you 
came here ? ” 

Gervaise, with her sleeves rolled up, showing her 
pretty, fair arms, was soaping a child’s shirt. She 
rubbed it, and turned it, soaped and rubbed it again. 
Before she answered she took up her beater and began 
to use it, accenting each phrase, or rather punctuating 
them, with her regular blows. 

“Yes, yes, washed — I should think I had! ever 
since I was ten years old. We went to the river side, 
where I came from. It was much nicer than here. I 
wish you could see it — a pretty corner under the trees 
by the running water. Do you know Plassans? near 
Marseilles?” 

“ You are a strong one, anyhow ! ” cried Madame 
Boche, astonished at the rapidity and strength of the 
woman. “ Yoiir arms are slender, but they are like 
iron. 


40 


l’assommoir. 


The conversation continued until all the linen was 
well beaten and yet whole ! Gervaise then took each 
piece separately, rinsed it, then rubbed it with soap and 
brushed it. That is to say, she held the cloth firmly 
with one hand, and with the other moved the short 
brush from her, pushing along a dirty foam which fell 
off into the water below. 

As she brushed they talked. 

“No, we are not married,” said Gervaise. “I do 
not intend to lie about it. Lantier is not so nice that 
a woman need be very anxious to be his wife. If it 
were not for the children ! I was fourteen and he was 
eighteen, when the first one was born. The other 
child did not come for four years. I was not happy at 
home. Papa Macquart, for the merest trifle, would 
beat me. I might have married, I suppose.” 

She dried her hands, which were red under the white 
soap suds. 

“ The water is very hard in Paris,” she said. 

Madame Boche had finished her work long before, 
but she continued to dabble in the water merely as an 
excuse to hear this story, which for two weeks had 
excited her curiosity. Her mouth was open, and her 
eyes were shining with satisfaction, at having guessed 
so well. 

“Oh! yes, just as I knew;” she said to- herself, 
“ but the little woman talks too much ! 1 was sure, 

though, there had been a quarrel.” 

Then aloud : 


l’assommoir. 


41 


*‘IIe is not good to you, then?” 

“ He was very good to me once,” answered Gervaise, 
“ but since we came to Paris he has changed. His 
mother died last year, and left him about seventeen 
hundred francs. He wished to come to Paris, 
and as Father Macquart was in the habit of hitting 
me in the face without any warning, I said I 
would come too, which we did, with the two children. 
I meant to be a fine laundress, and he was to continue 
with his trade as a hatter. We might have been very 
happy. But you see, Lantier is extravagant ; he likes 
expensive things, and thinks of his amusement before 
anything else. He is not good for much, anyhow ! 

We arrived at the H6tel Montmartre. We had 
dinners and carriages, suppers and theatres, a watch 
for him, a silk dress for me — for he is not selfish when 
he has money. You can easily imagine therefore, at 
the end of two months, we were cleaned out. Then it 
was that we came to H6tel Boncceur, and that this life 
began.” She checked herself with a strange choking in 
the throat. Tears gathered in her eyes. She finished 
brushing her linen. 

“ I must get my scalding water? ” she murmured. 

But Madame Boche, much annoyed at this sudden 
interruption to the long desired confidence, called the 
boy. 

“ Charles,” she said, “ it would be very good of you 
if you would bring a pail of hot water to Madame 
Lantier, as she is in a great hurry.” 

3 


42 


l'assommoir. 


The boy brought a bucket full, and Gervaise paid 
him a sou. It was a sou for each bucket. She turned 
the hot water into her tub and soaked her linen once 
more and rubbed it with her hands, while the steam 
hovered round her blonde head like a cloud. 

“ Here, take some of this,” said the Concierge, as she 
emptied into the water that Gervaise was using, the 
remains of a package of bicarbonate of soda. She 
offered her also some eau de javelle, but the young 
woman refused, “it was only good,” she said, “for 
grease spots and wine stains.” 

“ I thought him somewhat dissipated,” said Madame 
Boche, referring to Lantier without naming him. 

Gervaise, leaning over her tub, and her arms up to 
the elbows in the soap suds, nodded, in acquiescence. 

“Yes,” continued the Concierge, “ I have seen many 
little tilings.” But she started back, as Gervaise turned 
round with a pale face and quivering lips. 

“ Oh ! I know nothing,” she continued. “ He likes 
to laugh, that is all, and those two girls who are with 
us, you know, Adele and Virginie, like to laugh too, so 
they have their little jokes together, but that is all there 
is of it, I am sure.” 

The young woman with the perspiration standing on 
her brow, and her arms still dripping, looked her full in 
the face with earnest, inquiring eyes. 

Then the Concierge became excited, and struck her 
breast, exclaiming : 

“ I tell you I know nothing whatever, nothing more 
than I tell you ! ” 


l’assommoik. 


43 


Then she added in a gentle voice, “ But he has honest 
eyes, my dear. He will marry you child, I promise 
that he will marry you ! ” 

Gervaise dried her forehead with herr damp hand and 
shook her head. The two women were silent for a 
moment; around them too, it was very quiet. The 
clock struck eleven. Many of the women were seated 
swinging their feet, drinking their wine and eating their 
sausages, sandwiched between slices of bread. An oc- 
casional economical housewife hurried in with a small 
bundle under her arm, and a few sounds of the pounder 
were still heard at intervals ; sentences were smothered 
in the full mouths, or a laugh was uttered, ending in a 
gurgling sound as the wine was swallowed, while the 
great machine puffed steadily on. Not one of the 
women, however, heard it — it was like the very respi- 
ration of the Lavatory — the eager breath that drove 
up among the rafters the floating vapor that filled the 
room. 

The heat gradually became intolerable. The sun 
shone in on the left through the high windows, impart- 
ing to the vapor opaline tints — the palest rose and 
tender blue fading into soft grays. When the women 
began to grumble, the boy Charles went from one win- 
dow to the other, drawing down the heavy linen shades. 
Then he crossed to the other side, the shady side, and 
opened the blinds. There was a general exclamation 
of joy — a formidable explosion of gayety. 

All this time Gervaise was going on with her task 


44 


l’assommoir. 


and had just completed the washing of her colored 
pieces, which she threw over a trestle to drip; soon 
small pools of blue water stood on the floor. Then she 
began to rinse the garments in cold water which ran 
from a spigot near by. 

“ You have nearly finished,” said Madame Boclie. 
“ I am waiting to help you wring them.” 

“Oh! you are very good. It is not necessary 
though ! ” answered the young woman, as she swashed 
the garments through the clear water. “ If I had sheets 
I would not refuse your offer, however.” 

Nevertheless she accepted the aid of the Concierge. 
They took up a brown woolen skirt badly faded, from 
which poured out a yellow stream as the two women 
wrung it together. 

Suddenly Madame Boche cried out: 

“ Look ! There comes Big Virginie ! She is actually 
coming here to wash her rags tied up in a handker- 
chief.” 

Gervaise looked up quickly. Virginie was a woman 
about her own age — larger and taller than herself, a 
brunette, and pretty in spite of the elongated oval of 
her face. She wore an old black dress with flounces 
and a red ribbon at her throat. Her hair was carefully 
arranged and massed in a blue chenille net. 

She hesitated a moment in the centre aisle and half 
shut her eyes, as if looking for something or somebody, 
but when she distinguished Gervaise she went toward 
her with a haughty, insolent air and supercilious smile, 


l’assommoir. 45 

and finally established herself only a short distance 
from her. 

“ That is a new notion ! ” muttered Madame Boche, 
in a low voice. “ She was never known before to rub 
out even a pair of cuffs. She is a lazy creature, I d« 
assure you. She never sews the buttons on her boots. 
She is just like her sister, that minx of an Adele, who 
stays away from the shop two days out of three. 
What is she rubbing now ? A skirt, is it ? It is dirty 
enough, I am sure ! ” 

It was clear that Madame Boche wished to please 
Gervaise. The truth was she often took coffee with 
Adele and Virginie, when the two sisters were in 
funds. Gervaise did not reply, but worked faster than 
before. She was now preparing her blueing water in a 
small tub standing on three legs. She dipped in hex 
pieces, shook them about in the colored water, which 
was almost a lake in hue, and then wringing them, she 
shook them out, and threw them lightly over the high 
wooden bars. 

While she did this she kept her back well turned on 
Big Virginie. But she felt that the girl was looking 
at her, and she heard an occasional derisive sniff. 
Virginie in fact, seemed to have come there to pro- 
voke her, and when Gervaise turned around the two 
women fixed their eyes on each other. 

“Let her be,” murmured Madame Boche. “She is 
aot the one, now I tell you ! ” 

At this moment, as Gervaise was shaking her last 


46 


l’assommoir. 


piece of linen, she heard laughing and talking at the 
door of the Lavatory. 

“ Two children are here asking for their mother I ’* 
cried Charles. 

All the women looked around, and Gervaise recog- 
nized Claude and fitienne. As soon as they saw her 
they ran toward her, splashing through the puddles, 
their untied shoes half off, and Claude, the eldest, drag- 
ging his little brother by the hand. 

The women as they passed uttered kindly exclama- 
tions of pity, for the children were evidently frightened. 
They clutched their mother’s skirts and burred their 
pretty blonde heads. 

“ Did papa send you ? ” asked Gervaise. 

But as she stooped to tie Etienne’s shoes, she saw on 
Claude’s finger the key of her room, with its copper tag 
and number. 

“ Did you bring the key ? ” she exclaimed, in great 
surprise. “ And why, pray ? ’ 

The child looked down on the key hanging on his 
finger, which he had apparently forgotten. This seemed 
to remind him of something, and he said, in a clear, 
6hrill voice : 

“ Papa is gone ! ” 

“ He went to buy your breakfast, did he not ? And 
he told you to come and look for me here, I suppose ? ” 

Claude looked at his brother and hesitated. Then he 
exclaimed : 

“Papa has gone, I say. He jumped from the bed, 


l’assommoir. 


47 


put his things in his trunk, and then he carried his 
trunk down stairs and put it on a carriage. We saw 
him — he has gone ! ” 

Gervaise was kneeling, tying the boy’s shoe. She 
rose slowly, with a very white face, and with her hands 
pressed to either temple, as if she were afraid of her 
head cracking open. She could say nothing but the 
same words over and over again : 

“ Great God ! great God ! great God ! ” 

Madame Boche, in her turn, interrogated the child 
eagerly ; for she was greatly charmed at finding herself 
an actor, as it were, in this drama. 

“ Tell us all about it, my dear. He locked the door, 
did he ? and then he told you to bring the key here ? ” 
And then lowering her voice, she whispered in the 
child’s ear. 

“ Was there a lady in the carriage?” she asked. 

The child looked troubled for a moment, but speedily 
began his story again with a triumphant air. 

“ He jumped off the bed, put his things in the trunk, 
and he went away.” 

Then as Madame Boche made no attempt to detain 
him, he drew his brother to the faucet, where the two 
amused themselves in making the water run. 

Gervaise could not weep. She felt as if she were 
stifling. She covered her face with her hands, and 
turned toward the wall. A sharp, nervous trembling 
shook her from head to foot. An occasional sobbing 
sigh, or rather gasp, escaped from her lips, while she 


48 


l’assommoir. 


pressed her clenched hands more tightly on her eyes, as 
if to increase the darkness of the abyss in which she 
felt herself to have fallen. 

“ Come ! come ! my child ! ” muttered Madame Boclie. 
“ If you knew ! if you only knew all ! ” answered 
Gervi-ise. “ Only this very morning he made me carry 
my shawl and my chemises to the Mont-de-PiStS , and 
that was the money he had for the carriage ” — 

And the tears rushed to her eyes. The recollection 
of her visit to the pawnbroker’s, of her hasty return 
with the money in her hand, seemed to let loose the 
sobs that strangled her, and was the one drop too much. 
Tears streamed from her eyes and poured down her 
face. She did not think of wiping them away. 

“ Be reasonable, child ! be quiet,” whispered Madame 
Boche. “ They are all looking at you. Is it possible 
you can care so much for any man ? You love him 
still, although such a little while ago you pretended you 
did not care for him; and you cry as if your heart 
would break ! O Lord ! what fools we women are ! ” 
Then in a maternal tone she added : 

“ And such a pretty little woman as you are, tco. 
But now I may as well tell you the whole, I suppose ? 
Well! then, you remember when I was talking to you 
from the sidewalk, and you were at your window? 
I knew then that it was Lantier who came in with 
Ad61e. I did not see his face, but I knew his coat, 
*nd Boche watched and saw him come down stairs 
this morning. But he was with Ad61e, you under- 


l’ assommoih. 


49 


stand ? There is another person who comes to see 
Virginie twice a week.” 

She stopped for a moment to take breath, and then 
went on in a lower tone still. 

“ Take care ! she is laughing at you — the heartless 
little cat ! I bet all her washing is a sham. She has 
seen her sister and Lantier well off, and then came here 
to find out how you would take it.” 

Gervaise took her hands down from her face, and 
looked around. When she saw Virginie talking and 
laughing with two or three women, a wild tempest of 
rage shook her from head to foot. She stooped, with 
her arms extended, as if feeling for something, and 
moved along slowly for a step or two, then snatched up 
a bucket of soap suds and threw it at Virginie. 

“ You Devil ! be off with you ! ” cried Virginie, 
starting back. Only her feet were wet. 

All the women in the Lavatory hurried to the scene 
of action. They jumped up on the benches, some with 
a piece of bread in their hands, others with a bit of 
soap, and a circle of spectators was soon formed. 

“Yes, she is a Devil!” repeated Virginie. “What 
has got into the fool ? ” 

Gervaise stood motionless, her face convulsed and 
lips apart. The other continued : 

“ She got tired of the country, it seems, but she left 
one. leg behind her, at all events.” 

The women laughed, and Big Virginie, elated at her 
success, went on in a louder and more triumphant tone : 


50 


l’assommoir. 


“ Come a little nearer, and I will soon settle you . 
You had better have remained in the country. It is 
lucky for you that your dirty soap suds only went on 
my feet, for I would have taken you over my knees and 
given you a good spanking, if one drop had gone in my 
face. What is the matter with her, anyway?” and 
Big Virginie addressed her audience. “ Make her tell 
what I have done to her! Say! Fool — what harm 
have I ever done to you ? ” 

“ You had best not talk so much,” answered Ger- 
vaise, almost inaudibly ; “ you know very well where my 
husband was seen yesterday evening. Now be quiet, 
or harm will come to you. I will strangle you — quick 
as a wink.” 

“ Her husband, she says ! Her husband ! The lady’s 
husband ! As if a looking thing like that had a husband ! 
Is it my fault if he has deserted her ? Does she think 
I have stolen him ? Anyway, he was much too good 
for her. But tell me, some of you, was his name on his 

collar ? Madame has lost her husband ! She will 

pay a good reward, I am sure, to any one who will carry 
him back ! ” 

The women all laughed Gervaise, in a low, concen- 
trated voice, repeated : 

“ You know very well — you know very well ! your 
sister — yes, I will strangle your sister! ” 

“ Oh! yes, I understand,” answered Virginie, “stran- 
gle her if you choose. What do I care ? and what are 
you staring at me for? Can’t I wash my clothes in 
peace ? Come ! I am sick of this stuff ! Let me alone ! ” 


l’assommoir. 


51 


Big Virginie turned away, and after five or six 
juigry blows with her beater, she began again : 

“ Yes, it is my sister, and the two adore each ether.- 
You should see them bill and coo together. He has 
left you, with these dirty-faced imps, and you left 
three others behind you with three fathers ! It 
was your dear Lantier who told us all that. Ah ! he 
had had quite enough of you — he said so ! ” 

“ Miserable fool ! ” cried Gervaise, white with anger. 

She turned, and mechanically looked around on the 
floor, seeing nothing however, but the small tub of 
olueing water, she threw that in Virginie’s face. 

“ She has spoiled my dress ! ” cried Virginie, whose 
shoulder and one hand was dyed a deep blue. “ You 
just wait a moment ! ” she added, as she in her turn 
snatched up a tub and dashed its contents at Gervaise. 
Then ensued a most formidable battle. The two women 
ran up and down the room in eager haste, looking for 
full tubs, which they quickly flung in the faces of each 
other, and each deluge was heralded and accompanied 
by a shout. 

“Is that enough? Will that cool you off?” cried 
Gervaise. 

And from Virginie : 

“ Take that ! It is good to have a bath once in your 
life!” 

Finally the tubs and pails were all empty, and the 
two women began to draw water from the faucets. 
They continued their mutual abuse, while the water 


52 


L ASSOMMOIR. 


was running, and presently it was Virginie who 
received a bucket-ful, in her face. The water ran down 
her back and over her skirts. She was stunned and 
bewildered, when suddenly there came another in her 
left ear, knocking her head nearly off her shoulders — 
her comb fell and with it her abundant hair. 

Gervaise was attacked about her legs. Her shoes 
were filled with water, and she was drenched above her 
knees. Presently the two women were deluged from 
head to foot, their garments stuck to them, and they 
dripped like umbrellas which have been out in a heavy 
shower. 

“ What fun ! ” said one of the laundresses, as she 
looked on at a safe distance. 

The whole Lavatory were immensely amused, and 
the women applauded as if at a theatre. The floor 
was covered an inch deep with water, through which the 
termagants splashed. Suddenly Virginie discovered 
a bucket of scalding water standing a little apart, she 
caught it and threw it upon Gervaise. There was an 
exclamation of horror from the lookers-on. Gervaise 
escaped with only one foot slightly burned ; but 
exasperated by the pain, she threw a tub with all her 
strength at the legs of her opponent. Virginie fell tc 
the ground. 

“ She has broken her leg ! ” cried one of the specta- 
tors. 

“ She deserved it,” answered another, “ for the tall 
one tried to scald her I ” 


l’assommoir. 53 

“ She was right, after all, if the blonde had taken 
away her man ! ” 

Madame Boche rent the air with her exclamations, 
waving her arms frantically, high above her head. She 
had taken the precaution to place herself behind a 
rampart of tubs, with Claude and Etienne clinging to 
her skirts, weeping and sobbing in a paroxysm of terror 
and keeping up a cry of “ Mamma ! Mamma ! ” When 
she saw Virginie prostrate on the ground, she rushed 
to Gervaise and tried to pull her away. 

“ Come with me ! ” she urged. “ Do be sensible. 
You are growing so angry that the Lord only knows 
what the end of all this will be ! ” 

But Gervaise pushed her aside, and the old woman 
again took refuge behind the tubs with the children. 
Virginie made a spring at the throat of her adversary, 
and actually tried to strangle her. Gervaise shook her 
off, and snatched at the long braid hanging from the 
girl’s head, and pulled it as if she hoped to wrench it 
off, and the head with it. 

The battle began again, this time silent and wordless, 
and literally tooth and nail. Their extended hands, 
with fingers stiffly crooked, caught wildly at all in their 
way, scratching and tearing. The red ribbon and the 
chenille net worn by the brunette were torn off, the 
waist of her dress was ripped from throat to belt, and 
showed the white skin on the shoulder. 

Gervaise had lost a sleeve, and her chemise was torn 
to her waist. Strips of clothmp lav in everv direo- 


54 


l’assommoir. 

lion. It was Gervaise who was first wounded. Three 
long scratches from her mouth to her throat bled pro- 
fusely, and she fought with her eyes shut lest she should 
be blinded. As yet Yirginie showed no wound. Sud- 
denly Gervaise seized one of her ear-rings — pear-shaped, 
of yellow glass — she tore it out and brought blood. 

“ They will kill each other ! Separate them,” cried 
several voices. 

The women gathered around the combatants; the 
spectators were divided into two parties — some exci- 
ting and encouraging Gervaise and Virginie as if they 
bad been dogs fighting, while others more timid trembled, 
turned away their heads, and said they were faint and 
sick. A general battle threatened to take place, such 
was the excitement. 

Madame Boche called to the boy in charge : 

“ Charles ! Charles ! Where on earth can he be ? ’ 

Finally she discovered him, calmly looking on with 
his arms folded. He was a tall youth, with a big neck. 
He was laughing and hugely enjoying the scene. It 
would be a capital joke, he thought, if the women tore 
each other’s clothes to rags, and if they should be com- 
pelled to finish their fight in a state of nudity. 

“ Are you there, then ? ” cried Madame Boche, when 
she saw him. “ Come and help us separate them, or 
you can do it yourself ” 

“ No, thank you,” he answered, quietly. “ I don’t 
propose to have my own eyes scratched out! I am not 
here for that. Let them alone ! It will do them nc 
harm to let a little of their hot blood out ! ” 


l’assommoir. 


55 


Madame Boche declared she would summon the 
police, but to this the mistress of the Lavatory, the 
delicate looking woman with weak eyes, strenuously 
objected. 

“ No, no, I will not. It would injure my house ! ” 
*he said over and over again. 

Both women lay on the ground. Suddenly Virginie 
struggled up to her knees. She had got possession of 
one of the beaters, which she brandished. Her voice 
was hoarse and low as she muttered : 

“This will be as good for you, as for your dirty 
linen ! ” 

Gervaise, in her turn, snatched another beater, which 
she held like a club. Her voice, also, was hoarse and 
low. 

“ I will beat your skin,” she muttered, “ as I would 
my coarse towels.” 

They knelt in front of each other in utter silence for 
at least a minute, with hair streaming, eyes glaring, and 
distended nostrils. They each drew a long breath. 

Gervaise struck the first blow with, her beater full on 
the shoulders of her adversary, and then threw herself 
over on the side to escape Yirginie’s weapon, which 
touched her on the hip. 

Thus started they struck each other as laundresses 
strike their linen, in measured cadence. 

The women about them ceased to laugh — many went 
away, saying they were faint. Those who remained 
watched the scene with a cruel light in their eye*. 


l’assommoir. 


56 

Madame Boche had taken Claude and fitienne to the 
other end of the room, whence came the dreary sound 
of their sobs which were heard through the dull blows 
of the beaters. 

Suddenly Gervaise uttered a shriek. Virginie had 
struck her just above the elbow on her bare arm, and 
the flesh began to swell at once. She rushed at Vir- 
ginie — her face was so terrible that the spectators 
thought she meant to kill her. 

“ Enough ! enough ! ” they cried. 

With almost superhuman strength, she seized Virginie 
by the waist, bent her forward with her face to the brick 
floor, and notwithstanding her struggles lifted her skirts 
and showed the white and naked skin. Then she 
brought her beater down as she had formerly done at 
Plassans under the trees on the river side, where her 
employer had washed the linen of the garrison. 

Each blow of the beater fell on the soft flesh with a 
dull thud, leaving a scarlet mark. 

“ Oh ! oh ! ” murmured Charles, with his eyes nearly 
starting from his head. 

The women were laughing again by this time, but 
soon the cry began again of “ Enough ! enough ! ” 

Gervaise did not even hear. She seemed entirely 
absorbed, as if she were fulfilling an appointed task, 
and she talked with strange, wild gayety, recalling one 
of the rhymes of her childhood : 

“ Pan ! Pan ! Margot au lavoir. 

Pan ! Pan ! a coups de battoir ; 


l’assommoir. 


57 


Pan ! Pan ! va laver son cceur , 

Pan ! Pan ! tout noir de douleur .” 

“ Take that for yourself, and that for your sister and 
this for Lantier. And now I shall begin all over again. 
That is for Lantier — that for your sister — and this 
for yourself ! ” 

“ Pan ! Pan ! Margot au lavoir ! 

Pan ! Pan ! a coups de battoir .” 

They tore Virginie from her hands. The tall brunette, 
weeping and sobbing, scarlet with shame, rushed out of 
the room, leaving Gervaise mistress of the field ; who 
calmly arranged her dress somewhat, and as her arm 
was stiff, begged Madame Boche to lift her bundle of 
linen on her shoulder. 

While the old woman obeyed, she dilated on her 
emotions during the scene that had just taken place. 

“You ought to go to a doctor and see if something 
is not broken. I heard a queer sound,” she said. 

But Gervaise did not seem to hear her, and paid no 
attention either, to the women who crowded around her 
with congratulations. She hastened to the door where 
her children awaited her. 

“ Two hours ! ” said the mistress of the establish- 
ment, already installed in her glass cabinet. “Two 
hours and two sous ! ” 

Gervaise mechanically laid down the two sous, and 
then, limping painfully under the weight of the wet 
linen which was slung over her shoulder, and dripped 
4 


58 


L ASSOMMOIR. 


as she moved — with her injured arm and bleeding 
cheek — she went away, dragging after her with her 
naked arm, the still sobbing and tear-stained Etienne 
and Claude. 

Behind her the Lavatory resumed its wonted busy air, 
a little gayer than usual from the excitement of the 
morning. The women had eaten their bread, and drank 
their wine, and they splashed the water and used their 
beaters with more energy than usual, as they recalled the 
blows dealt by Gervaise. They talked from alley to 
alley — leaning over their tubs. Words and laughs 
were lost in the sound of running water. The steam 
and mist were golden in the sun that came in through 
holes in the curtain. The odor of soap suds grew 
stronger and stronger. 

When Gervaise entered the alley which led to the 
HStel Boncoeur, her tears choked her. It was a long, 
dark, narrow alley, with a gutter on one side, close to 
the wall, and the loathsome smell brought to her mind 
the recollection of having passed through there with 
Lantier, a fortnight previous. 

And what had that fortnight been ? A succession of 
quarrels and dissensions, the remembrance of which 
would be forevermore a regret and bitterness. 

Her room was empty, filled with the glowing sun- 
light from the open window. This golden light rendered 
more apparent the blackened ceiling and the walls with 
the shabby, dilapidated paper. There was not an article 
beyond the furniture left in the room, except a woman’s 


l’assommoir. 5S 

fichu that seemed to have caught on a nail near the 
chimney. The children’s bed was pulled out into the 
centre of the room — the bureau drawers were wide 
open, displaying their emptiness. Lantier had washed 
and had used the last of the pomade — two cents worth 
on the back of a playing card — the dirty water in 
which he had washed, still stood in the basin. He had 
forgotten nothing, the corner hitherto occupied by his 
trunk now seemed to Gervaise a vast desert. Even the 
small mirror was gone. With a presentiment of evil 
she turned hastily to the chimney. Yes, she was right, 
Lantier had carried away the tickets. The pink papers 
were no longer between the candlesticks ! 

She threw her bundle of linen into a chair, and stood 
looking first at one thing and then at another, in a dull 
agony that no tears came to relieve. 

She had but one sou in the world. She heard a 
merry laugh from her boys, who, already consoled, were 
at the window. She went toward them, and laying 
a hand on each of their heads, looked out on that 
scene on which her weary eyes had dwelt so long that 
same morning. 4 

Yes, it was on that street that she and her children 
would soon be thrown, and she turned her hopeless, 
despairing eyes toward the outer Boulevards — looking 
from right to left, lingering at the two extremities, 
seized by a feeling of terror, as if her life thenceforward 
was to be spent between a slaughter house and a 
hospital. 


80 


L ASSOMMOIR. 


CHAPTER II. 

GERVAISE AND COUPEAU. 

ff^HREE weeks later, about half past eleven one fine' 
.JL sunny morning, Gervaise and Coupeau, the tin- 
vTorker, were eating some brandied fruit at the Assom- 
moir. 

Coupeau, who was smoking outside, had seen her as 
she crossed the street with her linen, and compelled 
her to enter. Her huge basket was on the floor, back 
of the little table where they sat. 

Father Colombe’s Tavern, known as the Assommoir, 
was on the corners of the Rue des Poissonni&rs and of 
the Boulevard de Rochechouart. The sign bore the one 
single word, in long, blue letters, 

DISTILLATION. 

And this word stretched from one end to the other. 
On either side of the door stood tall oleanders in small 
casks, their leaves covered thick with dust. The enor- 
mous counter with its rows of glasses, its fountain, and 
its pewter measures, was on the left of the door ; and 
the huge room was ornamented by gigantic casks 
painted bright yellow, and highly varnished, hooped 
with shining copper. On high shelves were bottles of 
liquors, and jars of fruits ; all sorts of flasks standing 
a older concealed the wall, and repeated their pale 


l’assommoir. 


ai 

green or deep crimson tints in the great mirror behind 
the counter. 

The great feature of the house however, was the 
distilling apparatus, which stood at the back of the 
room behind an oak railing, on which the tipsy work- 
men leaned, as they stupidly watched the still, with its 
long neck and serpentine tubes descending to subter- 
ranean regions — a very devil’s kitchen. 

At this early hour the Assommoir was nearly empty. 
A stout man in his shirt sleeves — Father Colombe him- 
self — was serving a little girl, not more than twelve 
years old, with four cents worth of liquor in a cup. 

The sun streamed in at the door, and lay on the floor, 
which was black where the men had spat as they smoked. 
And from the counter — from the casks — from all the 
room — rose an alcoholic emanation which seemed to 
intoxicate the very particles of dust floating in the sun- 
shine. 

In the meantime, Coupeau rolled a new cigarette. 
He was very neat and clean, wearing a blouse and a 
little blue cloth cap, and showing his white teeth as he 
smiled. 

The lower jaw was somewhat prominent, and the 
nose slightly flat; he had fine brown eyes, and the face 
of a happy child and good matured animal. His hair 
was thick and curly. His complexion was delicate 
still, for he was only twenty-six. Opposite him sat 
Gervaise in a black gown, leaning slightly forward, 
finishing her fruit, which she held by the stem. 


62 


l’assommoir. 


They were near the street, at the first of the four 
tables arranged in front of the counter. When Coupeau 
had lighted his cigar, he placed both elbows on the table 
and looked at the woman without speaking. Her 
pretty face had that day, something of the delicate 
transparency of fine porcelain. 

Then continuing something which they apparently 
had been previously discussing, he said in a low voice : 

“ Then you say no, do you ? Absolutely no ? ” 

“ Of course. No, it must be Monsieur Coupeau,” 
answered Gervaise, with a smile. Surely you do not 
intend to begin that again here ! You promised to be 
reasonable, too. Had I known, I should certainly have 
refused your treat.” 

He did not speak, but gazed at her more intently 
than before, with tender boldness. He looked at her 
soft eyes, and dewy lips, pale at the corners, but half 
parted, allowing one to see the rich crimson within. 

She returned his look with a kind and affectionate 
smile. Finally she said : 

“ You should not think of such a thing. It is folly ! 
I am an old woman. I have a boy eight years old. 
What should we do together ? ” 

“Much as other people do, I suppose!” answered 
Coupeau, with a wink. 

She shrugged her shoulders. 

“ You know nothing about it, Monsieur Coupeau, but 
I have had some experience. I have two mouths in 
the house, and they have excellent appetites. How am 


l’assomhoir. 


63 


t to bring up my children if I trifle away my time ? 
Then, too, my misfortune has taught me one great 
lesson, which is, that the less I have to do with men, 
the better ! ” 

She then proceeded to explain all her reasons, calmly 
and without anger. It was easy to see that her words 
were the result of grave consideration. 

Coupeau listened quietly, saying only at intervals : 

“You are hurting my feelings. Yes, hurting mj 
feelings ” 

“ Yes, I see that,” she answered, “ and I am really 
very sorry for you. If I had any idea of leading a dif- 
ferent life from that which I follow to-day, it might as 
well be with you as with another. You have the look 
of a good-natured man. But what is the use?” I 
have been now with Madame Fauconnier for a fortnight. 
The children are going to school, and I am very happy, 
for I have plenty to do. Don’t you see, therefore, that 
it is best for us to remain as we are?” 

And she stooped to pick up her basket. 

“ You are keeping me here to talk,” she said, “ and 
they are waiting for me at my employers’. You will 
find some other woman, Monsieur Coupeau, far prettier 
than I, who will not have two children to bring up ! ” 

He looked at the clock, and made her sit down 
again. 

“Wait!” he cried. “It is still thirty-five minutes 
of eleven. I have twenty-five minutes still, and don’t 
be afraid of any familiarity, for the table is between us! 


64 


L ASSOMMOIR. 


Do you dislike me so very much that you can’t stay 
and talk with me for five minutes?” 

She put down her basket, unwilling to seem disobli- 
ging, and they talked for some time in a friendly sort of 
way. She had breakfasted before she left home, and he 
had swallowed his soup in the greatest haste, and laid 
in wait for her as she came out. Gervaise, as she 
listened to him, watched from the windows — between the 
bottles of brandied fruit — the movement of the crowd 
in the street, which at this hour — that of the Parisian 
breakfast — was unusually lively. Workmen hurried 
into the Bakers, and coming out with a loaf under their 
arms, they went into the Veau a Deux Tetes , three 
doors higher up, to breakfast at six sous. Next the 
Baker’s, was a shop where fried potatoes, and mussels 
with parsley, were sold. A constant succession of shop 
girls carried off paper parcels of fried potatoes and cups 
filled with mussels, and others bought bunches of rad- 
ishes. When Gervaise leaned a little more toward the 
window, she saw still another shop, also crowded, 
from which issued a steady stream of children holding 
iD their hands, wrapped in paper, a breaded cutlet, 
or a sausage, still warm. 

A group formed around the door of the Assommoir. 

“Say! Bibi-la-Grillade,” asked a voice; “will you 
stand a drink all round ? ” 

Five workmen went in, and the same voice said : 

“ Father Colombe, be honest, now. Give us honest 
glasses, and no nut-shells, if you please.” 

Presently three more workmen entered together, and 


l’assommoir. 


65 


finally a crowd of blouses passed in between the dusty 
oleanders. 

“You have no business to ask such questions,” said 
Gervaise to Coupeau ; “ of course I loved him. But 
after the manner in which he deserted me ” — 

They were speaking of Lantier. Gervaise had never 
seen him again; she supposed him to be living with 
Yirginie’s sister — with the friend who was about to 
start a manufactory for hats. 

At first she thought of committing suicide, of drown- 
ing herself ; but she had grown more reasonable, and 
had really begun to trust that things were all for the 
best. With Lantier she felt sure she never could have 
done justice to the children, so extravagant were his 
habits. 

He might come, of course, and see Claude and 
Etienne. She would not show him the door ; only so 
far as she herself was concerned, he had best not lay 
his finger on her. And she uttered these words in a 
tone of determination, like a woman whose plan of life 
is clearly defined ; while Coupeau, who was by no 
means inclined to give her up lightly, teased and ques- 
tioned her in regard to Lantier with none too much 
delicacy, it is true, but his teeth were so white and his 
face so merry that the woman could not take offence. 

“ Did you beat him ? ” he asked, finally. “ Oh ! you 
are none too amiable. You beat people sometimes, I 
have heard.” 

She laughed gayly. 


66 


l’assommoir. 


Yes, it was true she had whipped that great Vir- 
ginie. That day she could have strangled some one 
with a glad heart. And she laughed again, because 
Coupeau told her that Virginie, in her humiliation, had 
left the Quartier. 

Gervaise’s face, as she laughed, however, had a cer- 
tain childish sweetness. She extended her slender, 
dimpled hands, declaring she would not hurt a fly. 
All she knew of blows was, that she had received a 
good many in her life! Then she began to talk of 
Plassans and of her youth. She had never been indis- 
creet, nor was she fond of men. When she had fallen 
in with Lantier she was only fourteen, and she regard- 
ed him as her husband. Her only fault, she declared, 
was that she was too amiable, and allowed people to 
impose on her, and that she got fond of people too 
easily ; were she to love another man, she should 
wish and expect to live quietly and comfortably with 
him alwaj's, without any nonsense. 

And when Coupeau slyly asked her if she called her 
dear children nonsense, she gave him a little slap and 
said that she, of course, was much like other women. 
But women were not like men, after all; they had 
their homes to take care of and keep clean; she was 
like her mother, who had been a slave to her brutal 
father for more than twenty years ! 

“My very lameness,” she continued — 

“ Your lameness? ” interrupted Coupeau, gallantly ; 
“why, it is almost nothing. No one would ever 
not ice it ! ” 


l’assommoir. 


67 


She shook her head. She knew very well that it was 
very evident, and at forty it would be far worse ; but she 
said softly, with a faint smile, “ You have a strange 
taste; to fall in love with a lame woman ! ” 

He, with his elbows on the table, still coaxed and 
entreated, but she continued to shake her head in the 
negative. She listened, with her eyes fixed on the 
street, seemingly fascinated by the surging crowd. 

The shops were being swept — the last frying pan of 
potatoes was taken from the stove — the pork merchant 
washed the plates his customers had used, and put his 
place in order. Groups of mechanics were hurrying 
out from all the workshops, laughing and pushing each 
other like so many school-boys, making a great scuffling 
on the sidewalk with their hob-nailed shoes; while 
some, with their hands in their pockets, smoked in a 
meditative fashion, looking up at the sun and winking 
prodigiously. The sidewalks were crowded, and the 
crowd constantly added to, by men who poured from 
the open door — men in blouses and frocks, old jackets 
and coats, which showed all their defects in the clear 
morning light. 

The bells of the various manufactories were ringing 
loudly, but the workmen did not hurry. They de- 
liberately lighted their pipes, and then with rounded 
shoulders slouched along, dragging their feet after them. 

Gervaise mechanically watched a group of three, one 
man much taller than the other two, who seemed to be 
hesitating as to what they should do next. Finally 
they came directly to the Assommoir. 


68 


L’ ASSOMMOIR. 


“ I know them,” said Coupeau, “ or rather I know 
the tall one. It is Mes-Bottes, a comrade of mine.” 

The Assommoir was now crowded with boisterous 
men. The glasses rang with the energy with which 
they brought down their fists on the counter. They 
stood in rows, with their hands crossed over theii 
stomachs, or folded behind their backs, waiting their 
turn to be served by Father Colombe. 

“ Hallo ! ” cried Mes-Bottes, giving Coupeau a rough 
slap on the shoulders, “how fine you have got to be 
with your cigarettes and your linen shirt bosom ! Who 
is your friend that pays for all this ? I should like to 
make her acquaintance.” 

“ Don’t be so silly ! ” returned Coupeau, angrily. 

But the other gave a knowing wink. 

“ Ah ! I understand — ‘ A word to the wise ’ ” — and 
he turned round with a fearful lurch to look at Ger- 
vaise, who shuddered and recoiled. The tobacco 
smoke — the odor of humanity added to this air heavy 
with alcohol, was oppressive — and she choked a little 
and coughed. 

“ Ah ! what an awful thing it is to drink ! ” she said 
in a whisper to her friend, to whom she then went on 
to say, how years before, she had drank anisette with 
her mother at Plassans, and how it had made her so 
rery sick that ever since that day, she had never been 
able to endure even the smell of liquors. 

“ You see,” she added, as she held up her glass, “ I 
have eaten the fruit ; but I left the brandy, for it would 
make me ill.” 


l’assommoir. 


69 


Ooupeau also failed to understand how a man could 
swallow glasses of brandy and water, one after the 
other. Brandied fruit, now and again, was not bad. 
As to absinthe and similar abominations, he never 
touched them — not he, indeed. His comrades might 
laugh at him as much as they pleased; he always re- 
mained on the other side of the door, when they came 
in to swallow perdition like that. 

His father, who was a tin worker like himself, had 
fallen one day from the roof of No. 25, in La Rue 
Coquenaud, and this recollection had made him very 
prudent ever since. As for himself, when he passed 
through that street and saw the place, he would sooner 
drink the water in the gutter, than swallow a drop at 
the wine shop. He concluded with the sentence : 

“You see in my trade, a man needs a clear head and 
steadj; legs.” 

Gervaise had taken up her basket — she had not 
risen from her chair, however, but held it on her knees, 
with a dreary look in her eyes as if the words of the 
young mechanic had awakened in her mind strange 
thoughts of a possible future. 

She answered in a low, hesitating tone, without any 
apparent connection : 

“ Heaven knows I am not ambitious. I do not ask 
for much in this world. My idea would be to live a 
quiet life, and always have enough to eat — a clean place 
to live in — with a comfortable bed, a table and a chair 
or two. Yes, I would like to bring my children up in 


70 


l’assommoir. 


that way, and see them good and industrious. I should 
not like to run the risk of being beaten — no, that 
would not please me at all ! ” 

She hesitated, as if to find something else to say, anc 
then resumed : 

“ Yes, and at the end I should wish to die in my bed 
in my own home ! ” 

She pushed back her chair and rose. Coupeau argued 
with her vehemently, and then gave an uneasy glance 
at the clock. They did not, however, depart at once. 
She wished to look at the still, and stood for some min- 
utes gazing with curiosity at the great copper machine. 
The tin worker, who had followed her, explained to her 
how the thing worked, pointing out with his finger the 
various parts of the machine, and showed the enormous 
retort whence fell the clear stream of alcohol. The 
still, with its intricate and endless coils of wire and 
pipes had a dreary aspect. Not a breath escaped from 
it and hardly a sound was heard. It was like some 
night task performed in daylight, by a melancholy, 
silent workman. 

In the meantime Mes-Bottes, accompanied by his two 
comrades, had lounged to the oak railing, and leaned 
there until there was a corner of the counter free. He 
laughed a tipsy laugh as he stood with his eyes fixed on 
the machine. 

“ By thunder ! ” he muttered, “ that is a jolly little 
thing ! ” 

He went on to say that it held enough to keep theii 


l’assommoir. 


71 


throats fresh for a week. As for himself, he should 
like to hold the end of that pipe between his teeth, and 
lie should like to feel that liquor run down his throat, 
in a steady stream, until it reached his heels. 

The •'till did its work slowly but surely. There was 
not a glimmer on its surface — no firelight reflected in 
its clean colored sides. The liquor dropped steadily, 
and suggested a persevering stream, which would grad- 
ually invade the room, spread over the streets and 
Boulevard, and finally deluge and inundate Paris itself. 

Gervaise shuddered and drew back. She tried to 
smile, but her lips quivered as she murmured : 

“ It frightens me — that machine ! It makes me feel 
cold to see that constant drip ” 

Then returning to the idea which had struck her as 
the acme of human happiness, she said : 

“ Say, do you not think that would be very nice ? 
To work and have plenty to eat — to have a little home 
all to one’s self — to bring up children, and then 
die in one’s bed ? ” 

“ And not be beaten,” added Coupeau, gayly. “ But 
I will promise never to beat you, Madame Gervaise, if 
you will agree to what I ask. I will promise also never 
to drink, because I love you too much ! Come now, 
say yes.” 

He lowered his voice and spoke with his lips close to 
her throat, while she, holding her basket in front of her, 
was making a path through the crowd of men. 

But she did not say no or shake her head as she had 


72 


l’assohmoir. 


don?. She glanced up at him with a half tender smile j 
and seemed to rejoice in the assurance he gave that ho 
did not drink. 

It was clear that she would have said yes, if she had 
i.ot sworn never to have anything more to do with men. 

Finally they reached the door, and went out of the 
place, leaving it crowded to overflowing. The fumes of 
alcohol, and the tipsy voices of the men carousing, 
went out into the street with them. 

Mes-Bottes was heard accusing Father Colombe of 
cheating, by not filling his glasses more than half full, 
and he proposed to his comrades to go in future to 
another place, where they could do much better and 
get more for their money. 

“ Ah ! ” said Gervaise, drawing a long breath when 
they stood on the sidewalk, “here one can breathe 
again. Good-bye, Monsieur Coupeau, and many thanks 
for jmur politeness. I must hasten now ! ” 

She moved on, but he took her hand and held it fast. 

“ Go a little way with me. It will not be much 
further for you. I must stop at my sister’s before I go 
back to the shop.” 

She yielded to his entreaties, and they walked slowly 
on together. He told her about his family. His 
mother, a tailoress, was the housekeeper. Twice she 
had been obliged to give up her work on account of 
trouble with her eyes. She was sixty-two on the third 
of the last month. He was her youngest child. One 
of his sisters, Madame Lerat, a widow, thirty-six j^ears 
old, was a flower maker, and lived at Batignolles, in La 


l’assommoir. 


73 


Rue Des Moines. The other, who was thirty, had mar- 
ried a chain maker — a man by the name of Lorilleux. 
It was to their rooms that he was now going. They 
lived in that great house on the left. He ate his din- 
ner every night with them; it was an economy for 
them all. But he wanted to tell them now, not to 
expect him that night, as he was invited to dine with a 
friend. 

Gervaise interrupted him suddenly : 

“ Did I hear your friend call you Cadet-Cassis ? ” 

“ Yes. That is a name they have given me, because 
when they drag me into a wine shop, it is Cassis* 
I always take. I had as lief be called ‘ Cadet-Cassis ’ 
as ‘ Mes-Bottes,’ any time.” 

“ I do not think Cadet-Cassis so very bad,” answered 
Gervaise, and she asked him about his work. How 
long should he be employed on the new Hospital ? 

“ Oh,” he answered, “there was never any lack 
of work.” He had always more than he could do. He 
should remain in that shop at least a year, for he had 
yards and yards of gutters to make. 

“ Do you know,” he said, “when I am up there I can 
see the H6tel Boncoeur. Yesterday you were at the 
window, and I waved my hand, but you did not see me.” 

They by this time had turned into La Rue de la 
Goutte d ’Or. He stopped and looked up. 

“ There is the house,” he said, “ and I was born only 
a few doors further off. It is an enormous place.” 

•Black Currant Ratifia. 


74 


l'assommoir. 


Gervaise looked up and down the facade. It was 
indeed enormous. The house was of five stories, with 
fifteen windows on each floor. The blinds were black, 
and with many of the slats broken, which gave an 
indescribable air of ruin and desolation to the place. 
Four shops occupied the rez de chauss£e. On the 
right of the door was a large room, occupied as a cook- 
shop. On the left was a charcoal vender, a thread and 
needle shop, and an establishment for the manufacture 
of umbrellas. 

The house appeared all the higher for the reason, that 
on either side were two low buildings, squeezed close to 
it, and stood square, like a block of granite roughly 
hewn, against the blue sky. Totally without ornament, 
the house grimly suggested a prison. 

Gervaise looked at the entrance, an immense doorway 
which rose to the height of the second story, and made 
a deep passage, at the end of which was a large 
court yard. In the centre of this doorway, which was 
paved like the street, ran a gutter full of pale, rose 
colored water. 

“ Come up,” said Coupeau, “ they won’t eat you.” 

Gervaise preferred to wait for him in the street, but 
she consented to go as far as the room of the Concierge, 
which was within the porch, on the left. 

When she had reached this place she again looked up. 

Within there were six floors, instead of five, and four 
regular facades surrounded the vast square of the 
court yard. The walls were gray — covered witli 


l’assommoir. 


75 


patches of leprous yellow, stained by the dripping from 
the slate covered roof. The wall had not even a 
moulding to break its dull uniformity — only the 
gutters ran across it. The windows had neither 
shutters nor blinds, but showed the panes of glass 
which were greenish and full of bubbles. Some were 
open, and from them hung checked mattresses and 
sheets to air. Lines were stretched in front of others, 
on which the family wash was hung to dry — men’s 
shirts, women’s chemises and children’s breeches ! 
There was a look as if the dwellers under that roof 
found their quarters too small, and were oozing out at 
every crack and aperture. 

For the convenience of each facade, there was a 
narrow, high doorway, from which a damp passage led 
to the rear, where were four stair-cases, with iron rail- 
ings. These each had one of the first four letters of the 
alphabet painted at the side. 

The Rez de Chauss^e was divided into enormous 
workshops, and lighted by windows black with dust. 
The forge of a locksmith blazed in one : from another 
came the sound of a carpenter’s plane — while near the 
doorway a pink stream from a dyeing establishment 
poured into the gutter. Pools of stagnant water stood 
in the courtyard, all littered with shavings and 
fragments of charcoal. A few pale tufts of grass 
struggled up between the flat stones, and the whole 
courtyard was lighted but dimly. 

In the shade near the water faucet, three small hens 


76 


l’assommoir. 


were peeking, with the vain hope of finding a wonn 
and Gervaise looked about her, amazed at the enormous 
[dace which seemed, like a little world, and as interested 
in the house as if it were a living creature. 

“ Are you looking for any one ? ” asked the Concierge, 
coming to her door considerably puzzled. 

But the young woman explained that she was waiting 
for a friend, and then turned back toward the street. 
As Coupeau still delayed, she returned to the court- 
yard, finding in it a strange fascination. 

The house did not strike her as especially ugly* At 
some of the windows were plants — a wall flower, 
blooming in a pot — a caged canary, who uttered an 
occasional warble — and several shaving mirrors caught 
the light and shone like stars. 

A cabinet-maker sang, accompanied by the regular 
whistling sounds of his plane, while from the lock- 
smith’s quarters came a clatter of hammers struck in 
cadence. 

At almost all the open windows the laughing, dirty 
faces of merry children were seen, and women sat, 
with their calm faces in profile, bending over their 
work. It was the quiet time — after the morning 
labors were over, and the men were gone to their work, 
and the house was comparatively quiet, disturbed only 
by the sounds of the various trades. The same refrain 
repeated hour after hour has a soothing effect, Gervaise 
thought. 

To be sure, the courtyard was a little damp. Were 


l’assoiimoir. 77 

she to live there, she should certainly prefer a room on 
the sunny side. 

She went in several steps, and breathed that heavy 
odor of the homes of the poor — an odor of old 
dust, of rancid dirt and grease ; but as the acridity oi 
the smells from the dye-house predominated, she de- 
cided it to be far better than the Hfitel Boncceur. 

She selected a window — a window in the corner on 
the left, where there was a small box planted with 
scarlet beans, whose slender tendrils were beginning to 
wind round a little arbor of strings. 

“ I have made you wait too long, I am afraid,” said 
Coupeau, whom she suddenly heard at her side. “ They 
make a great fuss when I do not dine there, and she 
did not like it to-day, especially as my sister had 
bought veal. You are looking at this house,” he 
continued. “ Think of it — it is always lit from top to 
bottom. There are a hundred lodgers in it. If I had 
any furniture I would have had a room in it long ago. 
It would be very nice here, wouldn’t it?” 

“ Yes,” murmured Gervaise, “ very nice indeed. At 
Plassans there were not so many people in one whole 
street. Look up at that window on the fifth floor — 
the window, I mean, where those beans are growing. 
See how pretty that is ! ” 

He, with his usual recklessness, declared he would 
hire that room for her, and they would live there 
together. 

She turned away with a laugh, and begged him not 


78 


l’assommoir. 


to talk any more nonsense. The house might stand oi 
fall — they would never have a room in it together. 

But Coupeau, all the same, was not reproyed when 
he held her hand longer than was necessary, in bidding 
her farewell, when they reached Madame Fauconnier’s 
laundry. 

For another month the kindly intercourse between 
Gervaise and Coupeau continued on much the same 
footing. He thought her wonderfully courageous — 
declared she was killing herself with hard work all day 
and sitting up half the night to sew for the children. 
She was not like the woman he had known ; she took 
life too seriously, by far ! 

She laughed and defended herself modestly. Unfor- 
tunately, she said, she had not always been discreet. 
She alluded to her first confinement when she was not 
more than fourteen — and to the bottles of anisette she 
had emptied with her mother — but she had learned 
much from experience, she said. He was mistaken, 
however, in thinking she was persevering and strong. 
She was, on the contrary, very weak, and too easily 
influenced, as she had discovered to her cost. Her 
dream had always been, to live in a respectable way, 
among respectable people ; because bad company knocks 
the life out of a woman. She trembled when she 
thought of the future, and said she was like a sou 
thrown up in the air — falling, heads up or down, ac- 
cording to chance — on the muddy pavement. All she 
bad seen, the bad example spread before her childish 


l’assommoie. 


78 


* 3 r es, had given her valuable lessons. But Coupeau 
laughed at these gloomy notions, and brought back her 
courage by attempting to put his arm around her 
waist. She slapped his hands, and he cried out that 
“for a weak woman, she managed to hurt a fellow con 
siderably ! ” 

As for himself, he was always as merry as a grig, and 
no fool, either. He parted his hair carefully on one 
side, wore pretty cravats and patent leather shoes on 
Sunday, and was as saucy as only a fine Parisian work- 
man can be. 

They were of mutual use to each other at the H6tel 
Boncoeur. Coupeau went for her milk, did many little 
errands for her, and carried home her linen to her cus- 
tomers, and often took the children out to walk. Ger- 
vaise, to return these courtesies, went up to the tiny 
room where he slept, and in his absence looked over 
his clothes, sewed on buttons and mended his garments. 
They grew to be very good and cordial friends. He 
was to her a constant source of amusement. She 
listened to the songs he sang, and to their slang and 
nonsense, which as yet had for her, much of the charm 
of novelty. But he began to grow uneasy, and his 
smiles were less frequent. He asked her whenever they 
met, the same question, “ When shall it be ? ” 

She answered invariably with a jest, but passed her 
days in a fire of indelicate allusions however, which did 
not bring a blush to her cheek. So long as he was not 
rough and brutal, she objected to nothing ; but one day 


80 


l’assommoir. 


she was very angry when he, in trying to steal a kiss, 
tore out a l ;ck of her hair. 

About the last of June Coupeau became absolutely 
morose, and Gervaise was so much disturbed by certain 
glances he gave her, that she fairly barricaded her door 
at night. Finally one Tuesday evening, when he had 
sulked from the previous Sunday, he came to her door 
at eleven in the evening. At first she refused to open 
it ; but his voice was so gentle, so sad even, that she 
pulled away the barrier she had pushed against the door 
for her better protection. When he came in, she was 
startled, and thought him ill, he was so deadly pale and 
his eyes were so bright. No, he was not ill, he said, 
but things could not go on like this ; he could not sleep. 

“Listen, Madame Gervaise,” he exclaimed, with 
tears in his eyes and a strange choking sensation in his 
throat. “We must be married at once. That is all 
there is to be said about it.” 

Gervaise was astonished and very grave. 

“ Oh ! Monsieur Coupeau, I never dreamed of this, 
as you know very well, and you must not take such a 
step lightly.” 

But he continued to insist — he was certainly fully 
determined. He had come down to her then, without 
waiting until morning, merely because he needed a 
good sleep. As soon as she said yes, he would leave 
her. But he should not go until he heard that word. 

“1 cannot say yes in such a hurry,” remonstrated 
Gervaise. “ I do not choose to run the risk of 3*011* 


l’assommoir. 


81 


telling me at some future day, that I led you into this. 
You are making a great mistake, I assure you. Suppose 
you should not see me for a week — you would forget 
me entirely. Men sometimes marry for a fancy, and in 
twenty-four hours would gladly take it all back. Sit 
down here and let us talk a little.” 

They sat in that dingy room, lighted only by one 
candle which they forgot to snuff, and discussed the 
expediency of their marriage until after midnight — 
speaking very low, lest they should disturb the children, 
who were asleep with their heads on the same pillow. 

And Gervaise pointed them out to Coupeau. That 
was an odd sort of dowry to carry a man surely ! How 
could she venture to go to him with such encumbrances? 
Then too, she was troubled about another thing. Peo- 
ple would laugh at him. Her story was known — her 
lover had been seen, and there would be no end of talk 
if she should marry now. 

To all these good and excellent reasons, Coupeau 
answered with a shrug of his shoulders. What did he 
care for talk and gossip ? He never meddled with the 
affairs of others, why should they meddle with his ? 

Yes, she had children to be sure, and he would look 
out for them with her. He had never seen a Avoman in 
his life, who was so good and so courageous and patient. 
Besides, that had nothing to do with it ! Had she been 
ugly and lazy, with a dozen dirty children, he would 
have wanted her, and only her. 

“Yes,” he continued, tapping her on the knee, “you 


82 


l’assommoir. 


are the woman I want, and none other. You hare 
nothing to say against that, I suppose ? ” 

Gervaise melted by degrees. Her resolution forsook 
her, and a weakness of her heart and her senses over- 
whelmed her in the face of this brutal passion. She 
ventured only a timid objection or two. Her hands lay 
loosely folded oil her knees, while her face was very 
gentle and sweet. 

Through the open window came the soft air of a 
fair June night — the candle flickered in the wind — 
from the street came the sobs of a child, the child of a 
drunken man, who was lying just in front of the door in 
the street. From a long distance the breeze brought, 
the notes of a violin, playing at a restaurant for some 
late marriage festival — a delicate strain it was too, 
clear and sweet as musical glasses. 

Coupeau, seeing that the young woman had exhausted 4 
all her arguments, snatched her hands and drew her 
toward him. She was in one of those moods which she 
so much distrusted, when she could refuse no one any- 
thing. But the young man did not understand this, 
and he contented himself with simply holding her hands 
closely in his. 

“You say yes, do you not?” he asked. 

“ How you tease,” she replied. “You wish it — well 
then, yes. Heaven grant that the day will not come 
when you will be sorry for it.” 

He started up, lifting her from her feet and kissed 
her loudly. He glanced at the children. 


l’assommoir. 


83 


“Hush!” he said, “we must not wake the boys! 
Good night.” 

And he went out of the room. Gervaise, trembling 
from head to foot, sat for a full hour on the side of her 
bed without undressing. She was profoundly touched, 
and thought Coupeau very honest and very kind. The 
tipsy man in the street uttered a groan like that of a 
wild beast, and the notes of the violin had ceased. 

The next evening, Coupeau urged Gervaise to go 
with him to call on his sister. But the young woman 
shrank with ardent fear from this visit to the Lorilleux. 
She saw perfectly well that her lover stood in dread of 
these people. 

He was in no way dependent on this sister, who was 
not the eldest either. Mother Coupeau would gladly 
give her consent, for she had never been known to con- 
tradict her son. In the family, however, the Lorilleux 
were supposed to earn ten francs per day, and this gave 
them great weight. Coupeau would never venture to 
marry unless they agreed to accept his wife. 

“ I have told them about you,” he said. “ Gervaise — 
Good Heavens ! what a baby you are ! Come there, 
to-night, with me ; you will find my sister a little stiff, 
and Lorilleux is none too amiable. The truth is they 
are much vexed — because, you see, if I marry, I shall 
no longer dine with them — and that is their great 
economy. But that makes no odds ; they won’t put you 
out of doors. Do what I ask, for it is absolutely 
necessary.” 


84 


l’assommoir. 


These words frightened Gervaise nearly out of her 
wits. One Saturday evening, however, she consented. 
Coupeau came for her at half-past eight. She was all 
ready, wearing a black dress, a shawl with printed palm 
leaves in yellow, and a white cap with fluted ruffles. 
She had saved seven francs for the shawl, and two francs 
fifty centimes for the cap ; the dress was an old one, 
cleaned and made over. 

“They expect you,” said Coupeau, as they walked 
along the street, “and they have become accustomed to 
the idea of seeing me married. They are really quite 
amiable to-night. Then, too, if you have never seen 
a gold chain made, you will be much amused in watch- 
ing it. They have an order for Monday.” 

“And have they gold in these rooms?” asked 
Gervaise. 

“ I should say so ! It is on the walls, on the floors — 
everywhere ! ” 

By this time they had reached the door, and had 
entered the courtyard. The Lorilleux lived on the 
sixth floor — staircase B. Coupeau told her, with a 
laugh, to keep tight hold of the iron railing and not let 
it go. 

She looked up, half shutting her eyes, and gasped as 
she saw the height to which the staircase wound. The 
last gas burner, high up, looked like a star trembling in 
a black sky, while two others, on alternate floors, cast 
long slanting rays down the interminable stairs. 

“ Ah ! Ha ! ” cried the young man, as they stopped a 


l’assommoir. 


85 


moment on the second landing, “I smell onion soup; 
somebody has evidently been eating onion soup about 
here, and it smells good, too.” 

It is true. Staircase B, dirty and greasy — both steps 
and railing with the plastering knocked off and show- 
ing the laths beneath — was permeated with the smell of 
cooking From each landing ran narrow corridors, and 
on either side were half open doors, painted yellow and 
Dlack, with finger marks about the lock and handles, 
and through the open window came the damp, disgust- 
ing smell of sinks and sewers mingling with the odor 
of onions. 

Up to the sixth floor came the noises from the rez-de- 
chaussee — the rattling of dishes being washed — the 
scraping of saucepans, and all that sort of thing. On 
one floor Gervaise saw through an open door on which 
were the words “ Designer qnd Draughtsman ” in large 
letters — two men seated at a table, covered with a var- 
nished cloth, they were disputing violently amid thick 
clouds of smoke from their pipes. The second and third 
floors were the quietest. Here, through the open doors, 
came the sound of a cradle rocking — the wail of a baby 
— a woman’s voice — the rattle of a spoon against a 
cup. On one door she read a placard, Madame Gaudron , 
Carder — on the next — Monsieur Madinier , Manufac- 
turer of Boxes. 

On the fourth there was a great quarrel going on — 
blows and oaths ; which did not prevent the neighbors 
opposite from playing cards with their door wide open 


86 


l’assommoir. 


for the benefit of the air. When Gervaise reached the 
fifth floor she was out of breath. Such innumerable stairs 
were a novelty to her. These winding railings made 
her dizzy. One family had taken possession of the land- 
ing — the father was washing plates in a small earthen 
pan, near the sink, while the mother was scrubbing the 
baby before putting it to sleep. Coupeau laughingly 
bade Gervaise keep up her courage; and at last they 
leached the top, and she looked around to see whence 
came the clear, shrill voice, which she had heard above 
all other sounds, ever since her foot touched the first 
stair. It was a little, old woman, who sang as she 
worked, and her work was dressing dolls at three cents 
apiece. Gervaise clung to the railing, all out of breath, 
and looked down into the depths below — the gas burner 
now looked like a star at the bottom of a deep well. 
The smells, the turbulent life of this great house seemed 
to rush over her in one tremendous gust. She gasped 
and turned pale. 

“We have not got there yet,” said Coupeau, “we 
have much further to go ; ” and he turned to the left, 
and then to the right again. The corridor stretched out 
before them, faintly lighted by an occasional gas burner 
— a succession of doors, like those of a prison or a con- 
vent, continued to appear — nearly all wide open, show- 
ing the sordid interiors. Finally they reached a corri 
dor that was entirely dark. 

“ Here we are,” said the tin-worker. “ Isn’t it a jour- 
ney ? Look out for three steps. Hold on to the wall/ 


l’assommoir. 


87 


And Gervaise moved cautiously for ten paces, 01 
more. She counted the three steps, and then Coupeau 
pushed open a door, without knocking. A bright light 
streamed forth. They went in. 

It was a long, narrow apartment, almost like a pro* 
longation of the corridor ; a woolen curtain, faded and 
spotted, drawn on one side, divided the room in two. 

One compartment, the first — contained a bed, pushed 
under the corner of the Mansard roof — a stove, still 
warm from the cooking of the dinner; two chairs, a 
table and a wardrobe. To place this last piece of fur- 
niture where it stood, between the bed and the door, 
had necessitated sawing away a portion of the ceiling. 

The second compartment Avas the workshop. At the 
back, a tiny forge, with bellows — on the right, a vice, 
screwed against the wall, under an 6tag£re, where were 
iron tools piled up — on the left, in front of the win- 
dow, was a small table, covered with pincers, magnifying 
glasses, tiny scales and shears — all dirty and greasy. 

“ We have come ! ” cried Coupeau, going as far as 
the woolen curtain. 

But he was not answered immediately. 

Gervaise, much agitated by the idea that she was 
entering a place filled with gold, stood behind her 
friend, and did not know whether to speak or retreat. 

The bi ight light which came from a lamp, and also 
from a brasier of charcoal in the forge, added to her 
tremble. She saw Madame Lorilleux, a small, dark 
woman, agile and strong, drawing with all the vigor of 


88 


l’assommoir. 


her arms — assisted by a pair of pincers — a thread 
oi black metal, which she passed through the holes 
of a draw-plate held by the vice. Before the desk or 
table in front of the window, sat Lorilleux, as short 
as his wife, but with broader shoulders. He was 
managing a tiny pair of pincers, and doing some work 
so delicate that it was almost imperceptible. It was he 
who first looked up, and lifted his head with its scanty, 
yellow hair. His face was the color of old wax — was 
long, and had an expression of physical suffering. 

“ Ah ! it is you, is it? Well ! well ! But we are in 
a hurry, you understand. We have an order to fill. 
Don’t come into the work-room. Remain in the 
chamber.” And he returned to his work — his face 
was reflected in a ball filled with water, through which 
the lamp sent on his work, a circle of the brightest 
possible light. 

“Find chairs for yourselves,” cried Madame Loril- 
leux. “ This is the lady, I suppose. Very well! Very 
well!” 

She rolled up her wire, and carried it to the forge, 
and then she fanned the coals a little to quicken the heat. 

Coupeau found two chairs, and made Gervaise seat 
herself near the curtain. The room was so narrow that 
he could not sit beside her, so he placed his chair a little 
behind, and leaned over her to give her the information 
he deemed desirable. 

Gervaise, astonished by the strange reception given 
her by these people, and uncomfortable under their 


l'assommoir. 


89 


sidelong glances, had a buzzing in her ears, which pre- 
vented her from hearing what was said. 

She thought the woman very old -looking for her 
thirty years, and also extremely untidy, with her hair 
tumbling over her shoulders and her dirty camisole. 

The husband, not more than a year older, seemed to 
Gervaise really an old man, with thin, compressed lips 
and bowed figure. He was in his shirt sleeves, and his 
naked feet were thrust into slippers down at tie heel. 

She was infinitely astonished at the smallness of the 
atelier — at the blackened walls and at the terrible heat. 

Tiny drops bedewed the waxen forehead of Lorilleux 
himself, while Madame Lorilleux threw off her sack, 
and stood in bare arms and chemise half slipped off. 

“ And the gold ? ” asked Gervaise softly. 

Her eager eyes searched the corners, hoping to dis- 
cover, amid all the dirt, something of the splendor of 
which she had dreamed. 

But Coupeau laughed. 

“Gold?” he said, “Look! here it is — and here — 
and here again, at your feet.” 

He pointed in succession to the fine thread with 
which his sister was busy, and at another package of 
wire hung against the wall near the vice ; then falling 
down on his hands and knees, he gathered up from the 
floor, on the tip of his moistened finger, several tiny, 
specks, which looked like needle points. 

Gervaise cried out! “That surely was not gold) 
That black metal, which looked precisely like iron ! ” 
d 


90 


l’assommoir. 


Her lover laughed, and explained to her the detail* 
of the manufacture in wliich his brother-in-law was en- 
gaged. The wire was furnished them in coils, just as it 
hung against the wall, and then they were obliged 
to heat and re-heat it half a dozen times during their 
manipulations, lest it should break. Considerable 
strength and a vast deal of skill was needed, and his 
sister had both. He had seen her draw out the gold 
until it was like a hair. She would never let her hus- 
band do it, because he always had a cough. 

All this time Lorilleux was watching Gervaise 
stealthily ; and after a violent fit of coughing, he said 
with an air as if he were speaking to himself : 

“ I make columns ” — 

“ Yes,” said Coupeau, in an explanatory voice , 
“ there are four different kinds of chains, and his style 
is called a column.” 

Lorilleux uttered a little grunt of satisfaction, all the 
time at work, with the tiny pincers held between very 
dirty nails. 

“Look here, Cadet -Cassis,” he said. “This very 
morning I made a little calculation. I began my work 
when I was only twelve years old. How many yards 
do you think I have made, up to this day ? ” 

He lifted his pale face. 

“ Eight thousand ! Do you understand ? Eight 
thousand! Enough to twist round the necks of all the 
women in this Quartier.” 

Gervaise returned to her chair entirely disenchanted. 


l’assommoir. 


91 


She thought it all very ugly and uninteresting. She 
smiled in order to gratify the Lorilleux, but she was 
annoyed and troubled at the profound silence they pre- 
served in regard to her marriage, on account of which 
she had called there that evening. These people treated 
her as if she were simply a spectator, whose curiosity 
had induced Coupeau to bring her to see their work. 

They began to talk, it was about the lodgers in the 
house. Madame Lorilleux asked her brother if he had 
not heard those Benard people quarrelling as he came up 
stairs. She said the husband always came home tipsy. 
Then she spoke of the Designer, who was overwhelmed 
with debts — always smoking and always quarrelling. 
The landlord was going to turn out the Coquets, who 
owed three quarters now, and who would put their 
furnace out on the landing, which was very dangerous. 
Mademoiselle Remanjon, as she was going down stairs 
with a bundle of dolls, was just in season to rescue one 
of the children from being burned alive. 

Gervaise was beginning to find the place unendura- 
ble. The heat was suffocating — the door could not be 
opened, because the slightest draught gave Lorilleux a 
cold. As they ignored the marriage question utterly, 
she pulled her lover’s sleeve to signify her wish to depart. 
He understood, and was himself 1 L annoyed at this affec- 
tation of silence. 

“We are going,” he said coldly. “We do not care 
to interrupt your work any longer.” 

He lingered a moment, hoping for a word or an allu 
si on. Suddenly he decided to begin the subject himself. 


92 


l’assommoie. 


“We rely on you, Lorilleux. You will be my wife’s 
witness,” he said. 

The man lifted his head in affected surprise, while 
his wife stood still in the centre of the work-shoj. 

“Are you in earnest?” he murmured, and thoo cou * 
fcinued as if soliloquizing, “ it is hard to know when this 
confounded Cadet-Cassis is in earnest ” 

“We have no advice to give,” interrupted hi,; wife. 
“It is a foolish notion, this marrying, and it never 
succeeds. Never — no — never.” 

She drawled out these last words, examining Gervaise 
from head to foot, as she spoke. 

“ My brother is free to do as he pleases, of course,” 
she continued. “Of course his family would have 

liked But then people always plan, and things turn 

out so differently. Of course it is none of my business. 
Had he brought me the lowest of the low, I shot !d have 
said, “ marry her, and let us live in peace ! ” He was 
very comfortable with us, nevertheless. He has con- 
siderable flesh on his bones, and does not look as if lie 
had been starved. His soup was always ready to the 
minute. Tell me, Lorilleux, don’t you think that my 
brother’s friend looks like Th^reSse — you know whom 
l mean — that woman opposite, who died of consump- 
tion?” 

“She certainly does,” answered the chain-maker, 
contemplatively. 

“ And you have two children, Madame ? I said to my 
brother I could not understand how he could marry 
a woman with two children. You must not be angry if 


l’assommoir. 


93 


I tldnk of his interests, it is only natural. You do not 
look very strong. Say, Lorilleux, don’t you think that 
Madame looks delicate?” 

This courteous pair made no allusion to her lameness, 
but Gervaise felt it to be in their minds. She sat stiff 
and still before them, her thin shawl with its yellow 
palm leaves wrapped closely about her, and answered in 
monosyllables as if before her judges. Coupeau, reali- 
zing her sufferings, cried out: 

“ This is all nonsense you are talking ! W hat I want 
to know is, if the day will suit you, July 29th.” 

“ One day is the same as another, to us,” answered 
his sister, severely. “ Lorilleux can do as ho pleases in 
regard to being your witness. I only ask for peace.” 

Gervaise, in her embarrassment, had been pushing 
about with her feet some of the rubbish on the floor, 
then fearing she had done some harm, she stooped 
to ascertain. Lorilleux hastily approached her with a 
lamp, and looked at her fingers with evident suspicion. 

“ Take care,” he said. Those small bit3 of gold stick 
to the shoes sometimes, and are carried off without your 
knowing it.” 

This was a matter of some importance of course, for 
his employers weighed what they entrusted to him. He 
shewed the hare’s foot with which he brushed the 
particles of gold from the table, and the skin spread on 
his knees to receive them. Twice each week, the shop 
was carefully brushed; all the rubbish was kept and 
burned, and the ashes were examined, where were found 
each month, twenty-five or thirty francs worth of gold 


94 


l’ assommoir. 


Madame Lorilleux did not take her eyes from the 
shoes of her guest. 

“If Mademoiselle would be so kind,” she murmured, 
with an amiable smile, “and would just look at her soles 
herself. There is no cause for offence, I am sure ! ” 

Gervaise, indignant and scarlet, reseated herself and 
held up her shoes for examination. Coupeau opened 
the door with a gay good night, and she followed him 
into the corridor after a word or two of polite farewell. 

The Lorilleux turned to their work at the end of their 
room where the tiny forge still glittered. The woman 
with her chemise slipped off her shoulder, which was 
red with the reflection from the brasier, was drawing 
out another wire — the muscles in her throat swelling 
with her exertions. 

The husband, stooping under the green light of the 
ball of water, was again busy with his pincers, not stop- 
ping even to wipe the sweat from his brow. 

When Gervaise emerged from the narrow corridors 
on to the sixth landing, she said with tears in her eyes : 

“ This certainly does not promise very well ! ” 

Coupeau shook his head angrily. Lorilleux should 
pay for this evening! Was there ever such a miser. 
To care if one carried off three grains of gold in the 
dust on one’s shoes. All the stories his sister told 
were pure fictions and malice. His sister never meant 
him to marry — his eating with them saved her at least 
four sous daily. But he did not care whether they 
appeared on the 29th of July or not, he could get along 
without them perfectly well. 


L’ ASSOMMOIR. 


95 


But Gervaise, as she descended the stair case, felt her 
heart swell with pain and fear. She did not like the 
strange shadows on the dimly -lighted stairs. From 
behind the doors, now closed, came the heavy breathing 
of sleepers who had gone to their beds, on rising from the 
table. A faint laugh was heard from one room, while 
a slender thread of light filtered through the key-hole 
of the old lady who was still busy with her dolls, 
cutting out the gauze dresses with squeaking scissors. 
A child was crying on the next floor, and the smell 
from the sinks was worse than ever, and seemed some- 
thing tangible amid this silent darkness. Then in the 
courtyard, while Coupeau pulled the cord, Gervaise 
turned and examined the house once more. It seemed 
enormous as it stood black against the moonless sky. 
The grey facades rose tall and spectral — the windows 
were all shut. No clothes fluttered in the breeze; there 
was literally not the smallest look of life, except in the 
few windows that were still lighted. From the damp cor- 
ner of the courtyard came the drip, drip of the fountain. 
Suddenly, it seemed to Gervaise as if the house were 
striding toward her and would crush her to the earth. 
A moment later and she smiled at her foolish fancy. 

“ Take care ! ” cried Coupeau. 

And as she passed out of the courtyard, she was 
compelled to jump over a little sea which had run from 
the dyer’s. This time the water was blue, as blue as 
the summer sky, and the reflection of the lamps carried 
by the Concierge, was like the stars themselves. 


96 


l’assommoir. 


CHAPTER III. 


A MARRIAGE OF THE PEOPLE. 
ERYAISE did not care for any great wedding 



VX Why should they spend their money so foolishly. 
Then, too, she felt a little ashamed and did not care to 
parade their marriage before the whole Quartier. But 
Coupeau objected. It would never do not to have some 
festivities — a little drive and a supper perhaps, at a 
restaurant, he would ask for nothing more. He vowed 
that no one should drink too much, and finally obtained 
the young woman’s consent and organized a picnic at 
five francs per head, at the Moulin d' Argent, Boulevard 
de la Chapelle. He was a small wine merchant, who 
had a garden back of his Restaurant. He made out 
a list. Among others appeared the names of two of 
his comrades, Bibi-la-Grillade and Mes-Bottes. It was 
true that Mes-Bottes crooked his elbow, but he was 
so deliciously funny that he was always invited to pic- 
nics. Gervaise said she, in her turn would bring her 
employer, Madame Fauconnier — all told there would 
be fifteen at the table. That was quite enough. 

Now as Coupeau was literally penniless he borrowed 
fifty francs from his employer. He first bought his 
wedding ring, it cost twelve francs out of the shop, but 
his brother-in-law purchased it for him for nine, at th« 


l’assommoir. 


97 


factory. He then ordered an overcoat, pantaloons and 
vest from a tailor to whom he paid twenty-five francs 
on account. His patent leather shoes and his bolivar 
could last a while longer. Then he put aside his ten 
francs for the picnic, which was what he and Gervaise 
must pay ; and they had precisely six francs remaining, 
the price of a Mass at the altar of the poor. He had no 
liking for those black frocks, and it broke his heart to 
give these beloved francs to them. But a marriage 
without a Mass, he had heard, was really no marriage 
at all. 

He went to the church to see if he could not drive a 
better bargain, and for an hour he fought with a stout 
little priest in a dirty soutane who, finally declaring 
that God could never bless such a union, agreed that 
the Mass should cost only five francs. Thus Coupeau 
had twenty sous in hand with which to begin the world ! 

Gervaise in her turn had made her preparations, had 
worked late into the night and laid aside thirty francs. 
She had set her heart on a silk mantelette marked 
thirteen francs, which she had seen in a shop window. 
She paid for it, and bought for ten francs from the 
husband of a laundress, who had died in Madame 
Fauconnier’s house, a delaine dress of deep blue, which 
she made over entirely. With the seven francs that 
remained, she bought a rose for her cap, a pair of white 
cotton gloves, and shoes for Claude. Fortunately both 
the boys had nice blouses. She worked for four days 
mending and making ; there was not a hole or a rip in 


98 


l’assommoir. 


anything. At last the evening before the important day 
arrived ; Gervaise and Coupeau sat together and talked, 
happy that matters were so nearly concluded. Their 
arrangements were all made. They were to go to the 
Mayor’s office — the two sisters of Coupeau declared 
they should remain at home — their presence not being 
necessary there. Then Mother Coupeau began to 
weep — saying she wished to go early and hide in 
a corner — and they promised to take her. 

The hour fixed for the party to assemble at the 
Moulin d' Argent, was one o’clock, sharp. From then 
they were to seek an appetite on the Plaine St. Denis 
and return by rail. Saturday morning, as he dressed, 
Coupeau thought with some anxiety of his scanty 
funds, he supposed he ought to offer a glass of wine and 
a slice of ham to his witnesses, while waiting for dinner ; 
unexpected expenses might arise — no — it was clear 
that twenty sous were not enough. He consequently, 
after taking Claude and Etienne to Madame Bcche, 
who promised to appear with them at dinner, ran 
to his brother-in-law and borrowed ten francs ; he did 
it with reluctance, and the words stuck in his throat, 
for he half expected a refusal. Lorilleux grumbled 
and growled, but finally lent the money. But Coupeau 
heard his sister mutter under her breath, “that is a 
good beginning.” 

The civil marriage was fixed for half-past ten. The 
day was clear, and the sun intensely , hot. In order not 
to excite observation the bridal pair, the mother 


l’assommoir. 


99 


ind the four witnesses separated — Gervaise walked in 
front, having the arm of Lorilleux, while Monsieur 
Madinier gave his to Mamma Coupeau; on the oppo- 
site sidewalk were Coupeau, Boche and Bibi-la-Grillade. 
These three wore black frock-coats, and walked with 
their arms dangling from their rounded shoulders. 
Boche wore yellow pantaloons. Bibi-la-Grillade’s coat 
was buttoned to the chin, as he had no vest, and a wisp 
of a cra vat was tied around his neck. 

Monsieur Madinier was the only one who wore a dress 
coat, a superb coat with square tails, and people stared 
as he passed, with the stout Mamma Coupeau in a green 
shawl and black bonnet with red ribbons. Gervaise 
was very sweet and gentle, wearing her blue dress and 
ner trim little silk mantle. She listened graciously, to 
Lorilleux, who, in spite of the warmth of the day, was 
nearly lost in the ample folds of a loose overcoat. 
Occasionally she would turn her head and glance across 
the street with a little smile at Coupeau, who was none 
too comfortable in his new clothes. They reached the 
Mayor’s office a half hour too early, and their turn was 
not reached until nearly eleven. They sat in the corner 
of the office, stiff and uneasy ; pushing back their chairs 
a little, out of politeness, each time one of the clerks 
passed them, and when the magistrate appeared, they 
all rose respectfully. They were bidden to sit down 
again, which they did, and were the spectators of three 
marriages — the brides in white and the bridesmaids in 
pink and blue, quite fine and stylish. 


100 


l’assommoir. 


When their own turn came Bibi-la-Grillade had dis* 
appeared, and Boche hunted him up in the Square, 
where he had gone to smoke a pipe. All the forms were 
so quickly completed that the party looked at each other 
in dismay, feeling as if they had been defrauded of halt 
the ceremony. Gervaise listened with tears in her eyes, 
and the old lady wept audibly. 

Then they turned to the Register and wrote their 
names in big, crooked letters — all but the newly-made 
husband, who, not being able to write, contented him- 
self with making a cross. 

Then the clerk handed the certificate to Coupeau. 
He, admonished by a touch from his wife’s elbow, pre- 
sented him with five sous. 

It was quite a long walk from the mayor’s office to 
the church. The men stopped midway to take a glass 
of beer, and Gervaise and Mamma Coupeau drank some 
cassis with water. There was not a particle of shade, 
for the sun was directly above their heads. The Beadle 
awaited them in the empty church, he hurried them 
towards a small chapel, asking them indignantly, if they 
were not ashamed to mock at religion by coming so 
late. A Priest came toward them, with an ashen face, 
faint with hunger, preceded by a boy in a dirty surplice. 
He hurried through the service, gabbling the Latin 
phrases, with side-long glances at the bridal party. 
The bride and bridegroom knelt before the altar in con- 
siderable embarrassment, not knowing when it was 
necessary to kneel and when to stand, and not always 
understanding the gestures made by the clerk. 


l’assommoir. 


101 


The witnesses thought it more convenient to stand all 
the time ; while Mamma Coupeau, overcome by her 
tears again, shed them on a prayer-book, which she had 
borrowed from a neighbor. 

It was high noon. The last mass was said, and the 
church was noisy with the movements of the sacristans 
who were putting the chairs in their places. The cen- 
tre altar was being prepared foi some fete, for the 
hammers were heard as the decorations were being 
nailed up. And, in the choking dust raised by the 
broom of the man who was sweeping the corner by the 
small altar, the Priest laid his cold and withered hand 
on the heads of Gervaise and Coupeau with a sulky air, 
as if he were uniting them as a mere matter of business, 
or to occupy the time between two masses. 

When the signatures were again affixed to the Reg- 
jster in the vestry, and the party stood outside in the 
sunshine, they had a sensation as if they had been 
driven at full speed, and were glad to rest. 

“I feel as if I had been at the dentist’s. We had no 
time to cry out before it was all over ! ” 

“ Yes, muttered Lorilleux ; “ they take less than 
tive minutes to do what can’t be undone in all one’s 
life ! Poor Cadet-Cassis ! ” 

Gervaise kissed her new mother with tears in her 
eyes, but with smiling lips. She answered the old 
woman gently: 

“ Do not be afraid. I will do my best to make him 
happy. If things turn out ill, it shall not be my fault.” 


102 


l’assommoir. 


The party went at once to the Moulin d' Argent, 
Coupeau now walked with his wife, some little distance 
in advance of the others. They whispered and laughed 
together, and seemed to see neither the people, nor the 
houses, nor anything that was going on about them. 

At the Restaurant, Coupeau ordered at once some 
bread and ham; then seeing that Boche and Bibi- 
la-Grillade were really hungry, he ordered more wine 
and more meat. His mother could eat nothing, and 
Gervaise, who was dying of thirst, drank glass aftei 
glass of water barely reddened with wine. 

“ This is my affair,” said Coupeau, going to the coun 
ter, where he paid four francs, five sous. 

The guests began to arrive. Madame Fauconnier, 
stout and handsome, was the first. She wore a percale 
gown, £crue ground, with bright figures, a rose-colored 
cravat, and a bonnet laden with flowers. Then came 
Mademoiselle Remanjon, in her scanty black dress, which 
seemed so entirely a part of herself, that it was doubtful 
if she laid it aside at night. The Gaudron household 
followed. The husband, enormously stout, looked as if 
his vest would burst at the least movement ; and his 
wife, who was nearly as huge as himself, was dressed in 
a delicate shade of violet, which added to her apparent 
size. 

“Ah! ” cried Madame Lerat, as she entered ; “ we 
are going to have a tremendous shower ! ” and she bade 
them all look out the window to see how black the 
clouds were. 


l’assommoir. 


103 


Madame Lerat, Coupeau’s eldest sister, was a tall, 
thin woman, very masculine in appearance, and talking 
through her nose; wearing a puce-colored dress, that 
was much too loose for her. It was profusely trimmed 
with fringe, which made her look like a lean dog just 
coming out of the water. She brandished an umbrella 
as she talked, as if it had been a walking-stick. As she 
kissed Gervaise, she said: 

“ You have no idea how the wind blows, and it is as 
hot as a blast from a furnace ! ” 

Everybody at once declared they had felt the storm 
coming all the morning. Three days of extreme heat, 
some one said, always ended in a gust. 

“ It will blow over,” said Coupeau, with an air 
of confidence ; “ but I wish my sister would come, all 
the same.” 

Madame Lorilleux, in fact, was very late. Madame 
Lerat had called for her, but she had not then begun to 
dress; “and,” said the widow, in her brother’s ear: 
“you never saw anything like the temper she was in!” 

They waited another half-hour. The sky was grow- 
ing blacker and blacker. Clouds of dust were rising 
along the street, and down came the rain. And it was 
in this first shower, that Madame Lorilleux arrived — 
out of temper and out of breath — struggling with her 
umbrella, which she could not close. 

“ I had ten minds,” she exclaimed, “ to turn back. I 
wanted you to wait until next Saturday. I knew it 
would rain u o-day — I was certain of it!” 


104 


l’assommoir. 


Coupeau tried to calm her, but she quickly snubbed 
him. Was it he, she would like to know, who was te 
pay for her dress if it were spoiled ? 

She wore black silk, so tight that the buttcn-holes 
were burst out, and it showed white on the shoulders, 
while the skirt was so scant that she could not take a 
long step: 

The other women, however, looked at her silk with 
envy. 

She took no notice of Gervaise, who sat by the side 
of her mother-in-law. She called to Lorilleux, and 
with his aid carefully wiped every drop of rain from 
her dress with her handkerchief. 

Meanwhile,- the shower ceased abruptly, but the 
storm was evidently not over, for sharp flashes of 
lightning darted through the black clouds. 

Suddenly the rain poured down again. The men 
stood in front of the door with their hands in their 
pockets, dismally contemplating the scene. The women 
crouched together with their hands over their eyes. 
They were in such terror they could not talk; when 
the thunder was heard further off, they all plucked up 
their spirits and became impatient, but a fine rain was 
falling that looked interminable. 

“What are we to do?” cried Madame Lorilleux 
crossly. 

Then Mademoiselle Remanjon timidly observed that 
the sun perhaps would soon be out, and they might yet 
go into the country ; upon this there was one general 
shout of derision. 


l’assommoie. 


105 


“ Nice walking it would be ! and how pleasant the 
grass would be to sit upon ! ” 

Something must be done, however, to get rid of the 
time until dinner. Bibi-la-Grillade proposed cards, 
Madame Lerat suggested story telling. To each propo- 
sition a thousand objections were offered. Finally when 
Lorilleux proposed that the party should visit the tomb 
of Abelard and H61oise, his wife’s indignation burst 
forth. 

She had dressed in her best, only to be drenched in 
the rain and to spend the day in a wine shop it seemed ! 
She had had enough of the whole thing and she should 
go home. Coupeau and Lorilleux held the door, she 
exclaiming violently : 

“ Let me go, I tell you I will go ! ” 

Her husband having induced her to listen to reason, 
Coupeau went to Gervaise, who was calmly conversing 
with her mother-in-law and Madame Fauconnier. 

“ Have you nothing to propose ? ” he asked, not ven 
turing to add any term of endearment. 

“No,” she said with a smile, “but I am ready to do 
anything you wish. I am very well suited as I am.” 

Her face was indeed as sunny as a morning in May. 
She spoke to every one kindly and sympathetically. 
During the storm she had sat with her eyes riveted on 
the clouds, as if by the light of those lurid flashes 
she was reading the solemn book of the Future. 

Monsieur Madinier had proposed nothing, he stood 
leaning against the counter with a pompous air; he 
7 


106 


l’assommoir. 


spat upon the ground, wiped his mouth with the back 
of Jiis hand and rolled his eyes about. 

“ We could go to the Musde du Louvre, I suppose,” 
and he smoothed his chin while awaiting the effect oi 
this proposition. 

“There are antiquities there, statues, pictures, — lots 
of things — it is very instructive. Have any of you 
been there ? ” he asked. 

They all looked at each other. Gervaise had never 
even heard of the place, nor had Madame Fauconnier, 
nor Boche. Coupeau thought he had been there one 
Sunday but he was not sure, but Madame Lorilleux, on 
whom Madinier’s air of importance had produced a 
profound impression, approved of the idea. The day 
was wasted any way, therefore if a little instruction 
could be got it would be well to try it. As the rain 
was still falling they borrowed old umbrellas of every 
imaginable hue, from the establishment, and started 
forth for the Mus6e du Louvre. 

There were twelve of them and they walked in 
couples. Madame Lorilleux with Madinier, to whom 
she grumbled all the way. 

“We know nothing about her” she said, “not even 
where he picked her up. My husband has already lent 
them ten francs ; and who ever heard of a bride without 
a single relation. She said she had a sister in Paris. 
Where is she to-day, I should like to know I ” 

She checked herself and pointed to Gervaise whose 
lameness was very perceptible as she descended the hill 


l’assommoir. 


107 


“ J ust look at her ! ” she muttered. “ Wooden legs ! ” 

This epithet was heard by Madame Fauconnier who 
took up the cudgels for Gervaise who, she said, was as 
neat as a pin and worked like a tiger. 

The wedding party coming out of la Rue St. Denis, 
crossed the Boulevard under their umbrellas amid the 
pouring rain, diving here and there among the carriages. 
The drivers as they pulled up their horses, shouted to 
them to look out, with an oath. On the gray and muddy 
sidewalk the procession was very conspicuous — the 
blue dress of the bride — the canary colored breeches 
pf one of the men, Madinier’s square tailed coat, — all 
gave a carnival-like air to the group. But it was the 
hats of the party that were the most amusing, for they 
were of all heights, sizes and styles. The shop-keepers 
on the Boulevard crowded to their windows to enjoy 
the drollery of the sight. The wedding procession — 
quite undisturbed by the observation it excited — went 
gayly on. They stopped for a moment on the Place 
des Victoire — the bride’s shoestring was untied — she 
fastened it at the foot of the statue of Louis XIV., her 
friends waiting as she did so. 

Finally they reached the Louvre. Here Madinier 
politely asked permission to take the head of the party ; 
the place was so large, he said, that it was a very easy 
thing to lose oneself ; he knew the prettiest rooms and 
the things best worth seeing, because he had often been 
there with an artist, a very intelligent fellow, from 
whom a great manufacturer of pasteboard boxes bought 
pictures. 


108 


l’assommoir. 


The party entered the museum of Assyrian antiqui- 
ties. They shivered and walked about, examining the 
colossal statues — the gods in black marble — strange 
beasts and monstrosities, half cats and half women. 
This was not amusing, and an inscription in Phenician 
characters appalled them. — “Who on earth had ever 
read such stuff as that ? it was meaningless nonsense ! ” 

But Madinier shouted to them from the stairs, 
“ Come on ! That is nothing ! Much more interesting 
things up here, I assure you ! ” 

The severe nudity of the great staircase cast a gloom 
over their spirits, an usher in livery added to their awe, 
and it was with great respect and on the tips of their 
toes they entered the French gallery. 

How many statues! How many pictures! They 
wished they had all the money they had cost. 

In the G-allerie (T Apollon the floor excited their 
admiration ; it was smooth as glass, even the feet of the 
sofas were reflected in it. Madinier bade them look 
at the ceiling, and at its many beauties of decoration, 
but they said they dared not look up. Then before 
entering the Salon Carre he pointed to the window 
and said : 

“ That is the balcony where Charles IX. fired on 
the people ! ” 

With a magnificent gesture he ordered his party to 
stand still in the centre of the Salon CarrS. 

“ There are only chef s-d' oeuvres here,” he whispered 
as solemnly as if he had been in a church. 


l’assommoir. 


109 


They walked around the Salon. Gervaise asked the 
meaning of one of the pictures — the Noces de Cana — 
Coupeau stopped before La Joconde declaring that it 
was like one of his aunts. 

Boche and Bibi-la-Grillade snickered and pushed 
each other at the sight of the nude female figures, and 
the Gaudrons, husband and wife, stood open-mouthed 
and deeply touched — before Murillo’s “Virgin.” 

When they had been once around the room, Madi- 
nier, who was quite attentive to Madame Lorilleux on 
account of her silk gown, proposed they should do it 
over again, it was well worth it, he said. 

He never hesitated in replying to any question 
which she addressed to him in her thirst for informa- 
tion, and when she stopped before “ Titian’s Mistress,” 
whose yellow hair struck her as like her own, he told 
her it was a mistress of Henri IV., who was the heroine 
of a play then running at the Ambigu. 

The wedding party finally entered the long gallery 
devoted to the Italian and Flemish schools of art. The 
pictures were all meaningless to them and their heads 
were beginning to ache. They felt a thrill of interest, 
however, in the copyists with their easels, who painted 
without being disturbed by spectators. The artists 
scattered through the rooms had heard that a primitive 
wedding party were making a tour of the Louvre, and 
hurried, with laughing faces to enjoy the scene, while 
the weary bride and bridegroom, accompanied by 
their friends, clumsily moved about over the shining; 


110 


l’assommoir. 


resounding floors much like cattle let loose, and with 
quite as keen an appreciation of the marvellous beau- 
ties about them. 

The women vowed their backs were broken stand- 
ing so long, and Madinier, declaring he knew the wa}’ 
said they would leave, after he had shown them a 
certain room to which he could go with his eyes shut. 
But he was very much mistaken. Salon succeeded to 
salon, and finally the party went up a flight of stairs 
and found themselves among cannons and other instru- 
ments of war. Madinier, unwilling to confess that 
he had lost himself, wandered distractedly about, de- 
claring that the doors had been changed. The party 
began to feel that they were there for life, when 
suddenly to their great joy, they heard the cry of the 
janitors resounding from room to room. 

“ Time to close the doors ! ” 

They meekly followed one of them, and when they 
were outside, they uttered a sigh of relief as they put 
up their umbrellas once more, but one and all affected 
great pleasure at having been to the Louvre. 

The clock struck four. There were two hours to 
dispose of before dinner. The women would have 
liked to rest,' but the men were more energetic, and 
proposed another walk, during which so tremendous 
a shower fell, that umbrellas were useless and dresses 
were irretrievably ruined. Then Monsieur Madinier 
suggested that they should ascend the column on the 
Place Vendome. 


l’assommoir. 


Ill 


“It is not a bad idea,” cried the men. And the 
procession began the ascent of the spiral staircase, 
which Boche said was so old that he could feel it 
shake. This terrified the ladies, who uttered little 
shrieks, but Coupeau said nothing, his arm was around 
his wife’s waist, and just as they emerged upon the 
platform he kissed her. 

“ Upon iny word ! ” cried Madame Lorilleux much 
scandalized. 

Madinier again constituted himself master of cere- 
monies, and pointed out all the monuments, but 
Madame Fauconnier would not put her foot outside 
the little door — she would not look down on that 
pavement for all the world, she said — and the party 
soon tired of this amusement and descended the stairs. 
At the foot Madinier wished to pay, but Coupeau 
interfered and put into the hand of the guard twenty- 
four sous — two for each person. It was now half past 
five ; they had just time to get to the restaurant, but 
Coupeau proposed a glass of Vermouth first, and they 
entered a cabaret for that purpose. 

When they returned to the Moulin d' Argent, they 
found Madame Boche, with the two children, talking 
to Mamma Coupeau, near the table — already spread 
and waiting. When Gervaise saw Claude and Etienne, 
she took them both on her knees and kissed them 
lovingly. 

“ Have they been good ? ” she asked. 

“ 1 should think Coupeau would feel rather queer I ’ 
said Madame Lorilleux, as she looked on grimly. 


112 


l’assommoir. 


Gervaise had been calm and smiling all day, but she 
had quietly watched her husband with the Lorilleux. 
She thought Coupeau was afraid of his sister — cow- 
ardly, in fact. The evening previous, he had said he 
d.d not care a sou for their opinion on any subject, and 
that they had the tongues of vipers ; but now he was 
with them, he was like a whipped hound, hung on their 
words and anticipated their wishes. This troubled his 
wife, for it augured ill, she thought, for their future 
happiness. 

“We won’t wait any longer for Mes-Bottes,” cried 
Coupeau. “We are all here, but him, and his scent is 
good ! Surely he can’t be waiting for us still, at Saint 
Denis ! ” 

The guests, in good spirits once more, took their 
seats with a great clatter of chairs. 

Gervaise was between Lorilleux and Madinier, and 
Coupeau between Madame Fauconnier, and his sister, 
Madame Lorilleux. The others seated themselves. 

“ No one has asked a blessing,” said Boche, as the 
ladies pulled the table cloth well over their skirts, to 
protect them from spots. 

But Madame Lorilleux frowned at this poor jest. 
The vermicelli soup, which was cold and greasy, waa 
eaten with noisy haste. Two gar<jons served them, 
wearing aprons of a very doubtful white, and greasy 
vests. 

Through the four windows, open on the court-yard 
and its acacias, streamed the light, soft and warm, after 


l’assommoir. 


113 


the storm. The trees, bathed in the setting sun, 
imparted a cool, green tinge to the dingy room, and 
the shadows of the waving branches and quivering 
leaves danced over the cloth. 

There were two fly-specked mirrors at either end of 
the room, which indefinitely lengthened the table 
spread with thick china. Every time the ga^ons 
opened the door into the kitchen, there came a strong 
smell of burning fat. 

“Don’t let us all talk at once!” said Boche, as a 
dead silence fell on the room, broken by the abrupt 
entrance of Mes-Bottes. 

“ You are nice people ! ” he exclaimed. “I have been 
waiting for you until I am wet through, and have a 
fish pond in each pocket.” 

This struck the circle as the height of wit, and they 
all laughed, while he ordered the gar<5on to and fro. 
He devoured three plates of soup and enormous slices 
of bread. The head of the establishment came and 
looked in, in considerable anxiety ; a laugh ran around 
the room. Mes-Bottes recalled tc their memories 
a day when he had eaten twelve hard-boiled eggs 
and drank twelve glasses of wine, while the clock was 
striking twelve. 

There was a brief silence. A waiter placed on the 
table a rabbit stew in a deep dish. Coupeau turned 
round. 

“Say, boy, is that a gutter rabbit? It mews still.” 

And the low mewing of a cat seemed indeed to 


114 


l’assommoir. 


come from the dish. This delicate joke was perpetra 
ted by Coupeau in the throat, without the smallest 
movement of his lips. This feat always met with such 
success that he never ordered a meal anywhere without 
a rabbit stew. The ladies wiped their eyes with their 
napkins because they laughed so much. 

Madame Fauconnier begged for the head — she adored 
the head ; and Boche asked especially for onions. 
Madame Lerat compressed her lips and said morosely : 
“ Of course. I might have known that ! ” 

Madame Lerat was a hard working woman. No man 
had ever put his nose within her door since her widow- 
hood, and yet her instincts were thoroughly bad — 
every word uttered by others, bore to her ears a double 
meaning — a coarse allusion sometimes so deeply vailed 
that no one but herself could grasp its meaning. 

Boche leaned over her with a sensual smile and 
entreated an explanation. She shook her head. 

“ Of course,” she repeated. “ Onions ! I knew it! ” 
Everybody was talking now, each of his own trade. 
Madinier declared that box-making was an art, and 
he cited the New Year bonbon boxes, as wonders of 
luxury. Lorilleux talked of his chains — of their deli- 
cacy and beauty. He said that in former times, jewel- 
lers wore swords at their sides. Coupeau described 
\ weather-cock, made by one of his comrades, out of 
tin. Madame Lerat showed Bibi-la-Grillade how a rose 
item was made, by rolling the handle of her knife 
between her bony fingers; and Madame Fauconnier 


l’assommoir. 


115 


complained loudly of one of her apprentices, who, the 
night before, had badly scorched a pair of linen sheets. 

“It is no use to talk!” cried Lorilleux, striking his 
fist on the table ; “ gold is gold ! ” 

A profound silence followed the utterance of this 
truism, amid which arose from the other end of the 
table, the piping tones of Mademoiselle Remanjon’s 
voice, as she said : 

“ And then I sew on • the skirt. I stick a pin in the 
head to hold on the cap, and it is done. They sell for 
three cents.” 

She was describing her dolls to Mes-Bottes, whose 
jaws worked steadily, like machinery. 

He did not listen, but he nodded at intervals, with 
his eyes fixed on the garcjons, to see that they carried 
away no dishes that were not emptied. 

There had been veal cutlets and string beans served. 
As a roti — two lean chickens on a bed of water cresses, 
were brought in. The room was growing very warm — 
the sun was lingering on the tops of the acacias, but the 
room was growing dark. The men threw off their 
coats, and ate in their shirt sleeves. 

“ Madame Boche,” cried Gervaise, “ please don’t let 
those children eat so much.” 

But Madame Coupeau interposed, and declared that 
for once in a while, a little fit of indigestion would do 
them no harm. 

Madame Boche accused her husband of holding 
Madame Lerat’s hand under the table. 


116 


L’ ASSOMMO IR. 


Madinier talked politics. He was a Republican, and 
Bibi-la-Grillade and himself wfere soon in a hot discus- 
sion. 

“ Who cares,” cried Coupeau, “ whether we have a 
King, an Emperor, or a President, so long as we earn 
our five francs per day ! ” 

Lorilleux shook his head. He was born on the same 
day as the Comte de Chambord, September 29th, 1820, 
and this coincidence dwelt in his mind. He seemed to 
feel that there was a certain connection between the 
return of the King to France, and his own personal for- 
tunes. He did not say, distinctly, what he expected, 
but it was clear that it was something very agreeable. 

The dessert was now on the table — a floating island 
flanked by two plates of cheese and two of fruit. The 
floating island was a great success. Mes-Bottes ate all 
the cheese and called for more bread. And then, as 
some of the custard was left in the dish, he pulled it 
toward him and ate it as if it had been soup. 

“ How extraordinary ! ” said Madinier, filled with 
admiration. 

The men rose to light their pipes, and as they passed 
Mes-Bottes, asked him how he felt. 

Bibi-la-Grillade lifted him from the floor, chair 
and all. 

*‘ Zounds ! ” he cried, “ the fellow’s weight has 
doubled!” 

Coupeau declared his friend had only just begun 
his night’s work, that he would eat bread until dawn 


l’assommoir. 


117 


The waiters, pale with fright, disappeared. Boche went 
flown stairs on a tour of inspection, and stated that the 
establishment was in a state of confusion, that the pro 
prietor, in consternation, had sent out to all the bakers 
i n the neighborhood ; that the house, in fact, had an 
utterly ruined aspect. 

“I should not like to take you to board,” said 
Madame Gaudron. 

“Let us have a punch,” cried Mes-Bottes. 

But Coupeau seeing his wife’s troubled face, inter- 
fered, and said no one should drink anything more. 
They had all had enough. 

This declaration met with the approval of some of the 
party, but the others sided with Mes-Bottes. 

“ Those who are thirsty are thirsty,” he said. “No 
one need drink that does not wish to do so, I am sure,” 
and he added, with a wink, “ there will be all the more 
for those who do ! ” . 

Then Coupeau said they would settle the account, 
and his friend could do as he pleased afterward. 

Alas ! Mes-Bottes could produce only three francs ; he 
had changed his five-franc piece, and the remainder had 
melted away somehow on the road from St. Denis. He 
handed over the three francs, and Coupeau, greatly 
indignant, borrowed the other two from his brother- 
in-law, who gave the money secretly, being afraid of 
his wife. 

Monsieur Madinier had taken a plate. The ladies 
each laid down their five franc pieces quietly and 


IIS 


l’assommoir. 


timidly, and then the men retreated to the other end oi 
the room and counted up the amount, and each man 
added to his subscription five sous for the gar^on. 

But when Monsieur Madinier sent for the proprietor 
the little assembly were thrilled, at hearing him say that 
this was not all, there were “ extras.” 

As this was received with exclamations of rage, he 
went into explanations. He had furnished twenty-five 
litres of wine instead of twenty as he agreed. The 
floating island was an addition, on seeing that the 
dessert was somewhat scanty, whereupon ensued a for- 
midable quarrel. Coupeau declared he would not pay 
a sou of the extras. 

“ There is your money,” he said, “ take it, and never 
again will one of us step a foot under your roof ! ” 

“ I want six francs more,” muttered the man. 

The women gathered about in great indignation, not 
a centime would they give they declared. 

Madame Fauconnier had had a wretched dinner — 
she said she could have had a better one at home for 
forty sous. Such arrangements always turned out 
badly, and Madame Gaudron declared aloud, that if 
people wanted their friends at their weddings they 
usually invited them out and out. 

Gervaise took refuge with her mother-in-law in a 
distant window, feeling heartily ashamed of the whole 
scene. 

Monsieur Madinier went down stairs with the man 
and low mutterings of the storm reached the party 


l’assommoir. 


119 


At the end of a half hour he reappeared, having 
yielded to the extent of paying three francs, but no one 
was satisfied, and they all began a discussion in regard 
to the extras. 

The evening was spoiled, as was Madame Lerat’s 
dress ; there was no end to the chapter of accidents. 

I know,” cried Madame Lorilleux, “ that the gar<jon 
spilled gravy from the chickens down my back.” She 
twisted and turned herself before the mirror until she 
succeeded in finding the spot. 

“ Yes, I knew it,” she cried, “and he shall pay for it 
as true as I live. I wish I had remained at home ! ” 

She left in a rage, and Lorilleux at her heels. 

When Coupeau saw her go, he was in actual conster- 
nation, and Gervaise saw that it was best to make a 
move at once. Madame Boche had agreed to keep 
the children with her for a day or two. 

Coupeau and his wife hurried out, in the hope of 
overtaking Madame Lorilleux, which they soon did. 
Lorilleux, with the kindly desire of making all smooth 
said, 

“We will go to your door with you.” 

“ Your doer indeed ! ” cried his wife, and then pleas- 
*ntlv went on to express her surprise that they did not 
postpone their marriage until they had saved enough to 
buy a little furniture and move away from that hole, 
up under the roof. 

“ But I have given up that room,” said her brother. 
“We shall have the one Gervaise occupies, it is larger.’ 


120 


l’assommoir. 


Madame Lorilleux forgot herself ; she wheeled around 
su ddenly. 

“What!” she exclaimed. “You are going to live 
in Wooden Legs’ room?” 

Gervaise turned pale. This name she now heard fcr 
the first time, and it was like a slap in the face. She 
heard much more in her sister-in-law’s exclamation than 
met the ear. That room to which allusion was made, 
was the one where she had lived with Lantier for a 
whole month, where she had wept such bitter tears, but 
Coupeau did not understand that, he was only wounded 
by the name applied to his wife. 

“It is hardly wise of you,” he said sullenly, “to 
nickname people after that fashion, as perhaps you are 
not aware of what you are called in your Quartier. 
Cow’s-Tail is not a very nice name, but they have given 
it to you on account of your hair. Why should we 
not keep that room ? it is a very good one.” 

Madame Lorilleux would not answer. Her dignity 
was sadly disturbed at being called Cow’s-Tail. 

They walked on in silence until they reached the 
IIQtel Boncceur; and just as Coupeau gave the two 
women a push toward each other, and bade them kiss 
and be friends, a man who wished to pass them on the 
right, gave a violent lurch to the left, and came between 
them. 

“ Look out ! ” cried Lorilleux, “ it is Father Bazouge. 
He is pretty full to-night.” 

Gervaise, in great terror, flew toward the door. 


l’assommoir. 


121 


Father Bazouge was a man of fifty, his clothes were 
covered with mud, where he had fallen in the street. 

“ Vou need not be afraid,” continued Lorilleux, “he 
will do you no harm. He is a neighbor of ours — the 
third room on the left in our corridor.” 

But Father Bazouge was talking to Gervaise. “I 
am not going to eat you, little one,” he said. “ I have 
drank too much, I know very well ; but when the work 
is done, the machinery should be greased a little now 
and then.” 

Gervaise retreated further into the doorway, and 
with difficulty kept back a sob. She nervously en- 
treated Coupeau to take the man away. 

Bazouge staggered off, muttering as he did so : 

“ You won’t mind it so much one of these days, my 
dear. I know something about women. They make a 
great fuss, but they get used to it all the same.” 


8 


122 


l’assommoir. 


CHAPTER IV. 

A HAPPY HOME. 

1 AOUR years of hard and incessant toil followed this 
. day. Gervaise and Coupeau were wise and pru- 
dent. They worked hard, and took a little relaxation on 
Sundays. The wife worked twelve hours of the twenty- 
four with Madame Fauconnier, and yet found time to 
keep her own home like waxwork. The husband was 
never known to be tipsy, but brought home his wages 
and smoked his pipe at his own window at night before 
going to bed. They were the bright and shining 
lights — the good example of the whole Quartier; and 
as they made jointly about nine francs per day, it was 
easy to see they were putting by money. 

But in the first few months of their married life they 
were obliged to trim their sails closely, and had some 
trouble to make both ends meet. They took a great 
dislike to the H<5tel Boncceur. They longed for a 
home of their own, with their own furniture. They es- 
timated the cost over and over again, and decided that 
for three hundred and fifty francs they could venture ; 
but they had little hope of saving such a sum in less 
than two years, when a stroke of good luck befell them. 

An old gentleman in Plassans sent for Claude, to 
place him at school. He was a very eccentric oldc 


l’assommoir. 


123 


gentleman, fond of pictures and art. Claude was a great 
expense to his mother, and when Etienne alone was at 
home, they saved the three hundred and fifty francs in 
seven months. The day they purchased their furniture 
they took a long and happy walk together ; for it was 
an important step they had taken — important not only 
in their own eyes, but in those of the people around 
them. 

For two months they had been looking for an apart- 
ment. They wished, of all things, to take one in the 
old house where Madame Lorilleux lived, but there was 
not one single room to be rented, and they were com- 
pelled to relinquish the idea. Gervaise was reconciled 
to this the more easily, since she did not care to be 
thrown in any closer contact with the Lorilleux. 
They looked further. It was essential that Gervaise 
should be near her friend and employer, Madame Fau- 
connier, and they finally succeeded in their search, and 
were indeed in wonderful luck ; for they obtained a 
large room, with a kitchen and tiny bed-room, just 
opposite the establishment of the laundress. It was a 
small house, two stories, with one steep staircase, and 
was divided into two lodgings — the one on the right, 
the other on the left, while the lower floor was occupied 
by a carriage maker. 

Gervaise was delighted. It seemed to her that she 
was once more in the country — no neighbors, no gos- 
sip, no interference ; and from the place where she 
0 , stood and ironed all day at Madame Fauconnier’s, she 
could see the windows of her own room. 


124 


l’assommoir. 


They moved in the month of April. Gervaise was 
then near her confinement, but it was she who cleaned 
and put in order h«r new home. “ Every penny was of 
consequence,” she said with pride, now that they 
should soon have another mouth to feed. She rubbed 
her furniture, which was of old mahogany, good, but 
second-hand, until it shone like glass, and was quite 
broken-hearted when she discovered a scratch. She 
held her breath if she knocked it when sweeping. The 
commode was her especial pride — it was so dignified 
and stately. Her pet dream — which however she kept 
to herself — was some day to have a clock to put in 
the centre of the marble slab. If there had not been a 
baby in prospect, she would have purchased this much 
coveted article at once ; but she sighed and dismissed 
the thought. 

Etienne’s bed was placed in the tiny room, almost a 
closet, and there was room for the cradle by its side. 
The kitchen was about as big as one’s hand ; and very 
dark, but by leaving the door open, one could see pretty 
well ; and as Gervaise had no big dinners to get, she 
managed comfortably. The large room was her pride. 

In the morning the white curtains of the alcove were 
drawn, and the bed-room was transformed into a lovely 
dining-room, with its table in the middle, the commode 
and a wardrobe opposite each other. A tiny stove kept 
them warm in cold weather, for seven sous per day. 

Coupeau ornamented the walls with several engra- 
vings — one of a Marshal of France on a spirited steed, „ 


l’assommoir. 


125 


with his b&ton in his hand. Above the commode were 
the photographs of the family, arranged in two lines, 
with an antique china bdnitier between. On the cor- 
ners of the commode, a bust of Pascal faced another of 
B6ranger — one grave, the other smiling. It was, 
indeed, a fair and pleasant home. 

“How much do you think we pay here ? ” Gervaise 
would ask of each new visitor. 

And when too high an estimate was given, she was 
charmed. 

“ One hundred and fifty francs — not a penny more,’ 
she would exclaim. “ Is it not wonderful ? ” 

No small portion of the woman’s satisfaction arose 
from an acacia, which grew in her court-yard, one of 
whose branches crossed her window, and the scanty 
foliage was a whole wilderness to her. 

Her baby was born one afternoon. She would not 
allow her husband to be sent for, and when he came 
gayly into the room, he was welcomed by his pale wife, 
who whispered to him as he stooped over her : 

“My dear, it is a girl.” 

“ All right ! ” said the tin-worker, jesting to hide his 
real emotion. “ I ordered a girl. You always do just 
what I want! ” 

He took up the child. 

“ Let us have a good look at you, young lady ! The 
down on the top of your head is pretty black, I think. 
Now you must never squall, but be as good and reason* 
able always as your papa and mamma.” 


126 


l’assommoir. 


Gervaise, with a faint smile and sad eyes, looked at 
her daughter. She shook her head. She would have 
preferred a boy, because boys run less risks in a place 
like Paris. The nurse took the baby from the father’s 
hands, and told Gervaise she must not talk. Coupeau 
said he must go and tell his mother and sister the news, 
but he was famished and must eat something first. His 
wife was greatly disturbed at seeing him wait upon 
himself, and she tossed about a little and complained 
that she could not make him comfortable. 

“ You must be quiet,” said the nurse again. 

“It is lucky you are here, or she would be up and 
cutting my bread for me,” said Coupeau. 

He finally set forth to announce the news to his 
family, and returned in an hour with them all. 

The Lorilleyx, under the influence of the prosperity 
of their brother and his wife, had become extremely 
amiable toward them, and only lifted their eyebrows 
in a significant sort of way, as much as to say that they 
could tell something if they pleased. 

“You must not talk, you understand,” said Coupeau, 
“but they would come and take a peep at you, and I 
am going to make them some coffee.” 

He disappeared into the kitchen, and the women dis- 
cussed the size of the baby and whom it resembled. 
Meanwhile Coupeau was heard banging round in the 
kitchen, and his wife nervously called out to him and 
told him where the things were that he wanted, but 
her husband rose superior to all difficulties, and soon 


l’assommoir. 


127 


appeared with the smoking coffee-pot, and they all 
seated themselves around the table, except the nurse, 
who drank a cup standing and then departed ; all was 
going well and she was not needed. If she was wanted 
in the morning, they could send for her. 

Gervaise lay with a faint smile on her lips. She only 
half heard what was said by those about her. She had 
no strength to speak, it seemed to her that she was 
dead. She heard the word baptism. Coupeau saw no 
necessity for the ceremony, and was quite sure too, 
that the child would take cold. In his opinion, the 
less one had to do with Priests, the better. His mother 
was horrified and called him a heathen, while the 
Lorilleux claimed to be religious people also. 

“ It had better be on Sunday,” said his sister, in a 
decided tone, and Gervaise consented with a little nod. 
Every body kissed her and then the baby, addressing it 
with tender epithets as if it could understand, and 
departed. 

When Coupeau was alone with his wife, he took her 
hand and held it while he finished his pipe. 

“ I could not help their coming,” he said, “ but I am 
sure they have given you the headache.” And the 
rough, clumsy man kissed his wife tenderly, moved by 
a great pity for all she had borne for his sake. 

And Gervaise was very happy. She told him so, and 
said her only anxiety now, was to be on her feet again 
as soon as possible, for they had another mouth to feed. 
He soothed her, and asked if she could not trust him to 
look out for their little one. 


128 


l’assommoik. 


In the morning, when he went to his work, he sei-t 
Madame Boche to spend the day with his wife, who at 
night told him she never could consent to lie still any 
longer and see a stranger going about her room, and 
the next day she was up, and would not be taken care 
of again. She had no time for such nonsense ! She 
said it would do for rich women, but not for her, and 
in another week she was at Madame Fauconnier’s 
again, at work. 

Madame Lorilleux, who was the baby’s godmother, 
appeared on Saturday evening with a cap and baptism 
robe, which she had bought cheap, because they had 
lost their first freshness. The next day, Lorilleux. as 
god-father, gave Gervaise six pounds of sugar. They 
flattered themselves they knew how to do things prop- 
erly, and that evening, at the supper given by Coupeau, 
did not appear empty-handed. Lorilleux came with a 
couple of bottles of wine under each arm, and his wife 
brought a large custard which was a specialty of a 
certain restaurant. 

Yes, they knew how to do things — these people — 
but they also liked to tell of what they did, and they 
told every one they saw in the next month, that they 
had spent twenty francs, which came to the ears of 
Gervaise, who was none too well pleased. 

It was at this supper that Gervaise became acquaint- 
ed with her neighbors on the other side of the house. 
These were Madame Goujet, a widow, and her son. Up 
to this time they had exchanged a good morning, when 


l’assommoir. 


129 


they met on the stairs, or in the street, but as Madame 
Goujet had rendered some small services on the first 
day of her illness, Gervaise invited them on the occa- 
sion of the baptism. 

These people were from the DSpartement du Nond 
Ti e mother repaired laces, while the son, a blacksmith 
by trade, worked in a factory. 

They had lived in their present apartment for five 
years. Beneath the peaceful calm of their lives lay a 
great sorrow. Goujet, the husband and father, had 
killed a man in a fit of furious intoxication, and then 
while in prison, had choked himself with his pocket- 
handkerchief. His widow and child left Lille after 
this and came to Paris, with the weight of this 
tragedy on their hearts and heads, and faced the f uture 
with indomitable courage and sweet patience. Perhaps 
they were over proud and reserved, for they held 
themselves aloof from those about them. Madame 
Goujet always wore mourning, and her pale serene face 
was encircled with nun-like bands of white. Goujet 
was a colossus of twenty-three, with a clear fresh com- 
plexion, and honest eyes. At the manufactory he 
went by the name of the Gucule-d’Or, on account of 
his beautiful blonde beard. 

Gervaise took a great fancy to these people, and when 
she first entered their apartment was charmed with the 
exquisite cleanliness of all she saw. Madame Goujet 
opened the door into her son’s room to show it to her. 
It was as pretty and white as the chamber of a young 


130 


l’assommoir. 


girl. A narrow iron bed, white curtains and quilt, a 
dressing-table and book-shelves, made up the furniture. 
A few colored engravings were pinned against the wall 
and Madame Goujet said that her son was a good deal 
of a boy still — he liked to look at pictures rather than 
read. Gervaise sat for an hour with her neighbor, 
watching her at work with her cushion, its numberless 
pins and the pretty lace. 

The more she saw of her new friends the better 
Gervaise liked them. They were frugal but not parsi- 
monious. They were the admiration of the neighbor- 
hood. Goujet was never seen with a hole or a spot on 
his garments. He was very polite to all, but a little 
diffident, in spite of his height and broad shoulders. 
The girls in the street were much amused to see him 
xook away when they met him — he did not fancy their 
ways — their forward boldness and loud laughs. One 
day he came home tipsy. His mother uttered no word 
of reproach, but brought out a picture of his father 
which was piously preserved in her wardrobe. And 
after that lesson Goujet drank no more liquor, though 
he conceived no hatred for wine. 

On Sunday he went out with his mother who was 
his idol. He went to her with all his troubles and with 
all his joys as he had done when little. 

At first he took no interest in Gervaise, but after a 
while he began to like her, and treated her like a sister 
ivith abrupt familiarity. 

Cadet -Cassis — who was a thorough Parisian — 


l’assommoir. 


131 




thought Gucule d’Or very stupid. What was the 
sense of turning away from all the pretty girls he met 
in the street? But this did not prevent the two young 
fellows from liking each other very heartily. 

For three years the lives of these people flowed 
tranquilly on, without an event. Gervaise had been 
elevated in the laundry where she worked, had 
higher wages, and decided to place Etienne at 
school. Notwithstanding all her expenses of the 
household, they were able to save twenty and thirty 
francs each month. When these savings amounted to 
six hundred francs, Gervaise could not rest, so tor- 
mented was she by ambitious dreams. She wished to 
open a small establishment herself, and hire apprentices 
.n her turn. She hesitated naturally to take the defi- 
nite steps, and said they would look round for a shop 
that would answer their purpose ; their money in the 
savings bank was quietly rolling up. She had bought 
her clock, the object of her ambition ; it was to be 
Daid for in a year — so much each month. It was a 
wonderful clock, rosewood with fluted columns, and 
gilt mouldings and pendulum. She kept her bank 
book under the glass shade, and often when she was 
thinking of her shop, she stood with her eyes fixed on 
the clock, as if she were waiting for some especial and 
Bolemn moment. 

The Coupeaus and the Goujets now went out on 
Sundays together. It was an orderly party with a 
dinner at some quiet restaurant. The men drank a 


132 


l’assommoir. 


glass 3 r two of wine, and came home with the ladies 
and counted up and settled the expenditures of the 
day before they separated. The Lorilleux were 
bitterly jealous of these new friends of their brother’s. 
They declared it had a very queer look to see him and 
his wife always with strangers rather than with his own 
family, and Madame Lorilleux began to say hateful 
things again of Gervaise. Madame Lerat on the con- 
trary, took her part, while mamma Coupeau tried to 
please every one. 

The day that Nana — which was the pet name given 
to the little girl — was three years old, Coupeau on 
coming in, found his wife in a state of great excitement. 
She refused to give any explanation, saying in fact there 
really was nothing the matter, but she finally became so 
abstracted that she stood still with the plates in 1 ?r 
hand, as she laid the table for dinner, and her husband 
insisted on an explanation. 

“If you must know,” she said, “that little shop in la 
Rue de la Groutte d' Or is vacant. I heard so only an 
hour ago and it struck me all of a heap ! ” 

It was a very nice shop in the very house of which 
they had so often thought. There was the shop itself — 
a back room — and two others. They were small, to be 
sure, but convenient and well arranged — only she 
thought it dear — five hundred francs. 

“ You asked the price then?” 

“ Yes, I asked it just out of curiosity,” she answered, 
with an air of indifference, “but it is too dear 


l’assommoir. 133 

decidedly too dear. It would be unwise I think, to 
take it.” 

But she could talk of nothing else the whole evening. 
She drew the plan of the rooms on the margin of a 
newspaper, and as she talked, she measured the fur- 
niture, as if they were to move the next day. Then 
Coupeau, seeing her great desire to have the place, de- 
clared he would see the owner the next morning, for it 
was possible he would take less than five hundred 
francs; but how would she like to live so near his 
sister, whom she detested? 

Gervaise was displeased at this, and said she detested 
no one, and even defended the Lorilleux, declaring 
they were not so bad, after all. And when Coupeau 
was asleep, her busy brain was at work arranging 
the rooms, which as yet they had not decided to hire. 

The next day, when she was alone, she lifted the 
shade from the clock and opened her bank book. 
Just to think, that her shop and future prosperity lay 
between those dirty leaves ! 

Before going to her work she consulted Madams 
Goujet, who approved of the plan. With a husband 
like hers, who never drank, she could not fail of suo 
cess. At noon she called on her sister-in-law to ask her 
•dvice, for she did not wish to have the air of conceal 
ing anything from the family. 

Madame Lorilleux was confounded. What! did 
Wooden-Legs think of having an establishment of her 
own ! and with an envious heart she stammered out 


134 


l’assommoir. 


that it would be very well certainly ; but when she had 
recovered herself a little she began to talk of the damp- 
ness of the courtyard, and of the darkness of the 
rez-de-chaussde. Oh ! yes, it was a capital place for 
rheumatism ; but of course, if her mind was made up, 
anything she could say would make no difference. 

That night Gervaise told her husband that if he had 
thrown any obstacles in the way of her taking the shop, 
she believed she should have fallen sick and died, 
so great was her longing. But before they came to 
any decision, they must see if no diminution of the rent 
could be obtained. 

“We can go to-morrow if you say so,” was her hus- 
band’s reply; “ you can call for me at six o’clock.” 

Coupeau was then completing the roof of a three- 
storied house, and was laying the very last sheets of 
zinc. It was May, and a cloudless evening. The sun 
was low in the horizon, and against the blue sky the 
figure of Coupeau was clearly defined, as he cut his 
zinc, as quietly as a tailor might have cut out a pair of 
breeches in his workshop. His assistant, a lad of 
seventeen, was blowing up the furnace with a pair of 
bellows, and at each puff a great cloud of sparks arose. 

“ Put in the irons, Zidore ! ” shouted Coupeau. 

The boy thrust the irons among the coals, which 
showed only a dull pink in the sunlight, and then went to 
work again with his bellows. Coupeau took up his last 
sheet of zinc. It was to be placed on the edge of the 
roof, near the gutter. Just at that spot the roof was 


l’ assommoir. 


135 


very steep. The man walked along in his list slippers 
much as if he had been at home, whistling a popular 
melody. He allowed himself to slip a little, and caught 
at the chimney, calling to Zidore as he did so : 

w Why in thunder don’t you bring the irons ? What 
are 3 r ou staring at ? ” 

But Zidore, quite undisturbed, continued to stare at 
a cloud of heavy black smoke that was rising in the 
direction of Grenelle. He wondered if it w r ere a fire ; 
but he crawled with the irons toward Coupeau, who 
began to solder the zinc, supporting himself on the 
point of one foot, or by one finger, not rashly, but with 
calm deliberation and perfect coolness. He knew what 
he could do, and never lost his head. His pipe was in 
his mouth, and he would occasionally turn to spit down 
into the street below. 

“Hallo! Madame Boohe!” he cried, as he suddenly 
caught sight of his old friend crossing the street, “ how 
are you to-day ? ” 

She looked up, laughed, and a brisk conversation 
ensued between the roof and the street. She stood 
with her hands under her apron and her face turned up, 
while he, with one arm round a flue, leaned over the 
side of the house. 

“ Have you seen my wife ? ” he asked. 

“No indeed ; is she anywhere round?” 

“ She is coming for me. Is every one well with you ?” 

“Yes, all well, thanks. I am going to a butchey 
near here who sells cheaper than up our way.” 


/36 


l’assommoir. 


They raised their voices, because a carriage was 
passing, and this brought to a neighboring window a 
little old woman, who stood in breathless horror, ex- 
pecting to see the man fall from the roof in another 
minute. 

“ Well, good-night ! ” cried Madame Boche, “ I must 
not detain you from your work.” 

Coupeau turned and took the iron Zidore held out to 
him. At the same moment Madame Boche saw Ger- 
vaise coming toward her, with little Nana trotting at 
her side. She looked up to the roof to tell Coupeau, 
out Gervaise closed her lips with an energetic signal, 
and then as she reached the old Concierge, she said in 
a low voice, that she was always in deadly terror that 
her husband would fall. She never dared look at him 
when he was in such places. 

“ It is not very agreeable, I admit,” answered Mad- 
ame Boche. “ My man is a tailor, and I am spared all 
this.” 

“At first,” continued Gervaise, “I had not a mo- 
ment’s peace. I saw him in my dreams on a litter ; but 
now I have got accustomed to it somewhat.” 

She looked up, keeping Nana behind her skirts, lest 
the child should call out and startle her father, who 
was at that moment on the extreme edge. She saw 
the soldering iron, and the tiny flame that rose as he 
carefully passed it along the edges of the zinc. Ger- 
vaise, pale with suspense and fear, raised her hands 
mechanically with a gesture of supplication. Coupeau 


l’assommoir. 137 

ascended the steep roof with a slow step ; then glancing 
down, he beheld his wife. 

“You are watching me, are you?” he cried, gayly. ' 
“ Ah, Madame Boche, is she not a silly one ? She was 
afraid to speak to me. Wait ten minutes, will you ? ” 

The two women stood on the sidewalk, having as 
much as they could do to restrain Nana, who insisted 
on fishing in the gutter. 

The old woman still stood at her window, looking up 
at the roof, and waiting. 

“Just see her,” said Madame Boche. “What is she 
looking at ? ” 

Coupeau was heard lustily singing ; with the aid of a 
pair of compasses, he had drawn some lines, and now 
proceeded to cut a large fan, this he adroitly, with 
his tools, folded into the shape of a pointed mushroom. 
Zidore was again heating the irons. The sun was set- 
ting just behind the house, and the whole western sky 
was flushed with rose fading to a soft violet, and 
against tills sky, the figures of the two men, immeasu- 
rably exaggerated, stood clearly out, as well as the 
strange form of the zinc which Coupeau was then 
manipulating. 

“ Zidore ! the irons ! ” 

But Zidore was not to be seen. His master, with an 
oath, shouted down the scuttle window which was open 
near by, and finally discovered him two houses off. 
The boy was taking a walk, apparently, with his scanty 
blonde hair blowing all about his head. 

9 


138 


l'assommoik. 


“Do you think you are in the country?” cried 
Coupeau, in a fury. “ You are another B^ranger per 
haps — composing verses ! Will you have the kindness 
to give me my irons ? Who ever heard the like. Give 
me my irons, I say ! ” 

The irons hissed as he applied them, and he called to 
Gervaise : 

“ I am coming ! ” 

The chimney to which he had fitted this cap was in 
the centre of the roof. Gervaise stood watching him, 
soothed by his calm self-possession. Nana clapped her 
little hands. 

“ Papa ! Papa ! ” she cried. “ Look ! ” 

The father turned — his foot slipped — he rolled 
down the roof slowly, unable to catch at anything. 

“ Good God ! ” he said, in a choked voice, and he fell 
— his body turned over twice and crashed into the 
middle of the street with the dull thud of a bundle 
of wet linen. 

Gervaise stood still. A shriek was frozen on her 
lips. Madame Boche snatched Nana in her arms, 
and hid her head that she might not see — and the 
little old woman opposite, who seemed to have waited 
for this scene in the drama, quietly closed her windows. 

Four men bore Coupeau to a druggist’s at the corner, 
where he lay for an hour while a litter was sent for 
from the Hospital Lariboisiere. He was breathing still, 
but that was all. Gervaise knelt at his side, hysteri- 
cally sobbing. Every minute or two, in spite of tho 


l’assommoir. 


139 


prohibition of the druggist, she touched him to see if he 
were still warm. When the litter arrived, and they 
spoke of the Hospital, she started up, saying, violently : 

“No — no! — Not to the Hospital — to our own 
home.” 

In vain did they tell her that the expenses would be 
very great if she nursed him at home. 

“ No — no ! ” she said, “ I will show them the way. 
He is my husband, is he not? and I will take care of 
him myself.” 

And Coupeau was carried home — and as the litter 
was borne through the Quartier the women crowded 
together and extolled Gervaise. “ She was a little lame 
to be sure, but she was very energetic, and she would 
save her man.” 

Madame Boche took Nana home, and then went 
about among her friends to tell the story with inter- 
minable details. 

“I saw him fall,” she said. “It was all because of 
the child ; he was going to speak to her, when down 
he went. Good Lord ! I trust I may never see such 
another sight.” 

For a week Coupeau’s life hung on a thread. His 
family and his friends expected to see him die from one 
hour to another. The physician, an experienced physi- 
cian, whose every visit cost five francs, talked of a lesion, 
and that word was in itself very terrifying to all but 
Gervaise, who pale from her vigils, but calm and reso- 
lute, shrugged her shoulders, and would not allow 


140 


l’assommoir. 


herself to be discouraged. Her man’s leg was broken, 
that she knew very well — “ but he need not die for 
that ! ” — and she watched at his side night and day — 
forgetting her children, and her home, and everything 
but him. 

On the ninth day, when the physician to.d her he 
would recover, she dropped, half fainting, on a chair — 
and at night she slept for a couple of hours with her 
head on the foot of his bed. 

This accident to Coupeau brought all his family 
about him. His mother spent the nights there, but she 
slept in her chair quite comfortably. Madame Lerat 
came in every evening, after work was over, to make 
inquiries. 

The Lorilleux at first came three or four times 
each day, and brought an arm-chair for Gervaise ; but 
soon quarrels and discussions arose as to the proper 
way of nursing the invalid, and Madame Lorilleux lost 
her temper, and declared that had Gervaise stayed at 
home, and not gone to pester her husband when he was 
at work, that the accident would not have happened. 

When she saw Coupeau out of danger, Gervaise 
allowed his family to approach him as they saw fit. His 
convalesence would be a matter of months. This again 
was a ground of indignation for Madame Lorilleux. 

“ What nonsense it was,” she said, “ for Gervaise to 
take him home ; had he gone to the Hospital he would 
have recovered as quickly again.” 

And then she made a calculation of what these four 


l’assommoir. 


141 


months would cost: — First, there was the time lost, 
then the physician, the medicines, the wines, and finally 
the meat for beef-tea. “ Yes, it would be a pretty sum 
to be sure ! If they got through it on their savings 
they would do well ; but she believed that the end 
would be, that they would find themselves head over 
heels in debt, and they need expect no assistance from 
his family, for none of them were rich enough to pay 
for sickness at home ! ” 

One evening Madame Lorilleux was malicious enough 
to say: 

“And your shop, when do you take it? The Con- 
cierge is waiting to know what you mean to do.” 

Gervaise gasped. She had utterly forgotten the shop. 
She saw the delight of these people when they believed 
that this plan was given up, and from that day 
they never lost an occasion of twitting her, on her 
dream that had toppled over like a house of cards, and 
she grew morbid, and fancied they were pleased at the 
accident to their brother which had prevented the 
realization of their plans. 

She tried to laugh, and to show them she did not 
grudge the money that had been expended in the res 
toration of her husband’s health. She did not with- 
draw all her savings from the bank at once, for she had 
a vague hope that some miracle would intervene which 
would render the sacrifice unnecessary. 

Was it not a great comfort, she said to herself and 
to her enemies, for as such she half began to regard tha 


142 


l’assommoir. 


Lorilleux, that she had this money now to turn to in 
this emergency. 

Her neighbors next door had been very kind and 
thoughtful to Gervaise all through her trouble and the 
illness of her husband. 

Madame Goujet never went out without coming to 
inquire if there was anything she could do, any com- 
mission she could execute. She brought innumerable 
bowls of soup, and even when Gervaise was particularly 
busy, washed her dishes for her. Goujet filled her 
buckets every morning with fresh water, and this was 
an economy of at least two sous, and in the evening 
came to sit with Coupeau. He did not say much but 
his companionship cheered and comforted the invalid. 
He was tender and compassionate, and was thrilled by 
the sweetness of Gervaise’s voice when she spoke to 
her husband. Never had he seen such a brave good 
woman; he did not believe she sat in her chair 
fifteen minutes in the whole day — she was never tired 
— never out of temper, and the young man grew very 
fond of the poor woman as he watched her. 

His mother had found a wife for him. A girl whose 
trade was the same of her own, a lace mender, and as 
ne did not wish to go contrary to her desires he 
consented that the marriage should take place in 
September. 

But when Gervaise spoke of his future he shook his 
head. 

“ All women are not like you, Madame Coupeau,” 
he said, “ if they were I should like ten wives.” 


l’assommoir. 


143 


At the end of two months Coupeau was on his feet 
again, and could move — with difficulty of course — as 
far as the window, where he sat with his leg on a chair. 
The poor fellow was sadly shaken by his accident, fie 
was no philosopher, and he swore from morning until 
night. He said he knew every crack in the ceiling. 
When he was installed in his arm chair it was little 
better. “ How long,” he asked impatiently, “ was he 
expected to sit there swathed like a mummy? ” And he 
cursed his ill luck. His accident was a cursed shame. 
If his head had been disturbed by drink it would have 
been different, but he was always sober and this was 
the result. He saw no sense in the whole thing ! 

“ My father,” he said, “ broke his neck. I don’t say he 
deserved it, but I do say there was a reason for it. But 
I had not drank a drop, and yet over I went, just 
because I spoke to my child! If there be a Father in 
Heaven as they say, who watches over us all, I must 
say He manages things strangely enough sometimes ! ” 

And as his strength returned, his trade grew strangely 
distasteful to him. It was a miserable business he said, 
roaming along gutters like a cat. In his opinion there 
should be a law which should compel every house-owner 
to tin his own roof. He wished he knew some other 
trade he could follow, something that was less dan- 
gerous. 

For two months more Coupeau walked with a crutch, 
md after a while was able to get into the street and 
then to the outer Boulevard, where he sat on a bench 


144 


l’assommoir. 


in the sun. His gayety returned, lie laughed again and 
enjoyed doing nothing. For the first time in his life 
he felt thoroughly lazy, and indolence seemed to have 
taken possession of his whole being. When he got rid 
of his crutches he sauntered about and watched the 
buildings which were in the process of construction in 
the vicinity, and he jested with the men and indulged 
himself in a general abuse of work. Of course he 
intended to begin again as soon as he was quite well, 
but at present the mere thought made him feel ill, he 
said. 

In the afternoons Coupeau often went to his sister’s 
apartment; she expressed a great deal of compassion 
for him and showed him every attention. When he 
was first married, he had escaped from her influence, 
thanks to his affection for his wife, and her’s for him. 
Now he fell under her thumb again ; they brought him 
back by declaring that he lived in mortal terror of his 
wife. But the Lorilleux were too wise to disparage her 
openly, on the contrary they praised her extravagantly, 
and he told his wife that they adored her, and begged 
her in her turn to be just to them. 

The first quarrel in their home, arose on the subject 
of Etienne. Coupeau had been with his sister. He 
came in late and found the children fretting for their 
dinner. He cuffed Etienne’s ears, bade him hold his 
tongue, and scolded for an hour. He was sure he did 
not know why he let that boy stay in the house, he was 
none of his ; until that day, he had accepted the child 
as a matter of course. 


l’assommoik. 


145 


Three days after this, he gave the boy a kick, and it 
was not long before the child, when he heard him 
coming, ran into the Goujets’, where there was always a 
corner at the table for him. 

Gervaise had long since resumed her work. She nc 
longer liftec the globe of her clock to take out her bank 
book, her savings were all gone, and it was necessary 
to count the sous pretty closely, for there were four 
mouths to feed, and they were all dependent on the 
work of her two hands. When any one found fault 
with Coupeau and blamed him, she always took his 
part. 

“ Think how much he has suffered,” she said, with 
tears in her eyes. Think of the shock to his nerves ! 
Who can wonder that he is a little sour? Wait awhile 
though until he is perfectly well, and you will see that 
his temper will be as sweet as it ever was.” 

And if any one ventured to observe that he seemed 
quite well, and that he ought to go to work, she would 
exclaim : 

“No indeed, not yet. It would never do.” She did 
not want him down in his bed again. She knew what 
the doctor had said, and she every day, begged him to 
take his own time. She even slipped a little silver into 
his vest pocket. All this Coupeau accepted as a matter 
of course. He complained of all sorts of pains and aches 
to gain a little longer period of indolence, and at the 
end of six months had began to look upon himself as a 
confirmed invalid. 


146 


L ASSOMMOIR. 


He almost daily dropped into a wine shop with a 
friend — it was a place where he could chat a little, and 
where was the harm? Besides, who ever heard of a 
glass of wine killing a man. But he swore to himself 
that he would never touch any thing but wine — not a 
drop of brandy should pass his lips. Wine was good 
for one — prolonged one’s life, aided the digestion — but 
brandy was a very different matter. Notwithstanding 
all these wise resolutions, it came to pass more than 
once that he came in, after visiting a dozen different 
cabarets, decidedly tipsy. On these occasions, Gervaise 
locked her doors and declared she was ill, to prevent 
the Goujets from seeing her husband. 

The poor woman was growing very sad. Every 
night and morning she passed the shop for which she 
had so ardently longed. She made her calculations 
over and over again, until her brain was dizzy. Two 
hundred and fifty francs rent — one hundred and fifty 
for moving and the apparatus she needed — one hun- 
dred francs to keep things going until business began 
to come in. No, it could not be done under £ /e 
hundred francs. 

She said nothing of this to any one, deterred only by 
the fear of seeming to regret the money she had spent 
for her husband during his illness. She was pale and 
dispirited at the thought that she must work five yerrs 
at least before she could save that much money. 

One evening, Gervaise was alone. Goujet entered — 
took a chair in silence, and looked at her as he smoked 


l’assommoir. 


147 


bis pipe. He seemed to be revolving something in 
his mind. Suddenly he took his pipe from his mouth. 

Madame Gervaise,” he said, “will you allow me to 
lend you the money you require ? ” 

She was kneeling at a drawer, laying some towels in 
a neat pile. She started up, red with surprise. He 
had seen her standing that very morning for a good ten 
minutes, looking at the shop; so absorbed that she had 
not seen him pass. 

She refused his offer, however. No, she could never 
borrow money when she did not know how she could 
return it, and when he insisted, she replied: 

“ But your marriage? This is the money you have 
saved for that.” 

“Don’t worry on that account,” he said with a 
heightened color. “ I shall not marry. It was an idea 
of my mother’s, and I prefer to lend you the money.” 

They looked away from each other. Their friend- 
ship had a certain element of tenderness which each 
silently recognized. 

Gervaise accepted finally, and went with Goujet to 
see his mother, whom he had informed of his intentions. 
They found her somewhat sad, with her serene, pale face 
bent over her work. She did not wish to thwart her 
son, but she no longer approved of the plan, and she 
told Gervaise why. With kind frankness, she pointed 
out to her that Coupeau had fallen into evil habits 
and was living on her labors, and would in all prob- 
ability continue to do so. The truth was that Madame 


148 


l’assommoi r . 


Goujet had not forgiven Coupeau for refusing to read 
during all his long convalescence ; this and many other 
things had alienated her and her son from him, but they 
had in no degree lost their interest in Gervaise. 

Finally it was agreed she should have five hundred 
francs, and should return the money by paying each 
month, twenty francs on account. 

“Well, well!” cried Coupeau, as he feard of this 
financial transaction; “we are in luck. There is no 
danger with us to be sure, but if he were dealing with 
knaves, he might never see hide or hah of his cash 
again ! ” 

The next day the shop was taken, and Gervaise ran 
about with such a light heart, that ther* ,iu» a rumor 
that she had been cured of her lameness br yp<u ;\\i \i. 





l’assommoir. 


149 


CHAPTER V. 

AMBITIOUS DREAMS. 

rpHE Boche couple, on the first of April, moved 
_L also, and took the lSge of the great house in la Rue 
de la Goutte d’-Or. Things had turned out very nicely 
for Gervaise who, having always got on very comforta- 
ble with the Concierge in the house in Rue Neuve, 
dreaded lest she should fall into the power of some 
tyrant who would quarrel over every drop of water 
that was spilled, and a thousand other trifles like that. 
But with Madame Boche, all would go smoothly. 

The day the lease was to be signed, and Gervaise 
stood in her new home, her heart swelled with joy. 
She was finally to live in that house, like a small town, 
with its intersecting corridors, instead of streets. 

She felt a strange timidity — a dread of failure — 
when she found herself face to face with her enter- 
prise. The struggle for bread was a terrible and an 
increasing one, and it seemed to her for a moment that 
she had been guilty of a wild, foolhardy act — like 
throwing herself into the jaws of a machine; for the 
planes in the cabinet-maker’s shop and the hammers in 
the locksmith’s were dimly grasped by her as a part of 
a great whole. 

The water that ran past the door that day from the 


150 


l’assommoir. 


dyer’s was pale green. She smiled as she stepped ovei 
it, accepting this color as a happy augury. She, with 
her husband, entered the l<3ge, where Madame Boche 
and the owner of the building, Monsieur Marescot, were 
talking on business. 

Gervaise, with a thrill of pain, heard Boche advise 
the landlord to turn out the dress-maker on the third 
floor, who was behind-hand with her rent. She won- 
dered if she should ever be turned out, and then 
wondered again at the attitude assumed by these 
Boche people, who did not seem to have ever seen her 
before. They had eyes and ears only for the landlord, 
who shook hands with his new tenants; but when they 
spoke of repairs, professed to be in such haste that 
morning, that it would be necessary to postpone the 
discussion. They reminded him of certain verbal 
promises he had made, and finally he consented to 
examine the premises. 

The shop stood with its four bare walls and blackened 
ceiling. The tenant who had been there had taken 
away his own counters and cases. A furious discussion 
took place. Monsieur Marescot said it was for them 
to embellish the shop. 

“ That may be,” said Gervaise gently ; “ but surely 
you cannot call putting on a fresh paper, instead of 
this that hangs in strips, an embellishment. Whitening 
the curbing, too, conies under the head of necessary 
repairs.” She only required these two things. 

Finally Marescot, with a desperate air, plunged his 


l’assommoir. 


151 


hands deep in his pockets, shrugged his shoulders, and 
gave hia consent to the repairs on the ceiling, and to 
the paper, on condition that she would pay for half the 
paper — and then he hurried away. 

When he had departed, Boche clapped Coupeau on 
the shoulder. “You may thank me for that!” he 
cried, and then went on to say that he was the real 
master of the house — that he settled the whole busi- 
ness of the establishment, and it was a nod and look 
from him that had influenced Monsieur Marescot. 
That evening, Gervaise, considering themselves in debt 
to Boche, sent him some wine. 

In four days the shop should have been ready for 
them ; but the repairs hung on for three weeks. At 
first they intended simply to have the paint scrubbed 
but it was so shabby and worn, that Gervaise repainted 
at her own expense. Coupeau went every morning, 
not to work, but to inspect operations; and Boche 
dropped the vest or pantaloons on which he was work- 
ing, and gave the benefit of his advice, and the two 
men spent the whole day smoking and spitting, and 
arguing over each stroke of the brush. Some days the 
painters did not appear at all ; on others they came and 
walked off in an hour’s time, not to return again. 

Poor Gervaise wrung her hands in despair. But 
finally after two days of energetic labor, the whole 
thing was done, and the men walked off with their 
ladders, singing lustily. 

Then came the moving, and finally Gervaise called 


152 


l’assommoir. 


herself settled in her new home and was pleased as a 
child. As she came up the street she could see her 
sign afar off. 

CLEAR STARCHER. 

LACES AND EMBROIDERIES 

DONE UP WITH ESPECIAL CARE. 

The two first words were painted in large yellow 
letters on a pale blue ground. 

In the recessed window shut in at the back by muslin 
curtains, lay men’s shirts, delicate handkerchiefs and 
cuffs — all these were on blue paper and Gervaise was 
charmed. When she entered the door all was blue 
there ; the paper represented a golden trellis and blue 
morning glories. In the centre was a huge table draped 
with blue bordered cretonne, to hide the trestles. 

Gervaise seated herself and looked round, happy in 
the cleanliness of all about her. Her first glance how- 
ever was directed to her stove, a sort of furnace whereon 
ten irons could be heated at once. It was a source of 
constant anxiety lest her little apprentice should fill it 
too full of coal and so injure it. 

Behind the shop was her bedroom and her kitchen 
from which a door opened into the court. Nana’s bed 
stood in a little room at the right, and Etienne was 
compelled to share his with the baskets of soiled clothes. 
It was all very well except that the place was very damp, 
and that it was dark by three o’clock in the afternoon 
in winter. 


L'AtSOMMOIR. 


153 


The new shop created a great excitement in the 
neighborhood. Some people declared that the Cou- 
peaus were on the road to ruin, they had in fact spent 
the whole five hundred francs, and were penniless con- 
trary to their intentions. The morning that Gervaise 
first took down her shutters, she had only six francs in 
the world, but she was not troubled, and at the end of 
a week she told her husband after two hours of abstruse 
calculations, that they had taken in enough to cover 
their expenses. 

The Lorilleux were in a state of rage, and one morn- 
ing when the apprentice was emptying on the sly, a 
bowl of starch which she had burned in making, just 
as Madame Lorilleux was passing, she rushed in and 
accused her sister-in-law of insulting her. After this 
all friendly relations were at an end. 

“ It all looks very strange to me, ” sniffed Madame 
Lorilleux ; “ I can’t tell where the money comes from, 
but I have my suspicions,” and she went on to inti- 
mate that Gervaise and Goujet were altogether too 
intimate. This was the groundwork of many fables, 
she said Wooden Legs was so mild and sweet that she 
had deceived her to the extent that she had consented 
to become Nana’s god-mother, which had been no small 
expense ; but now things were very different. If Ger- 
vaise were dying and asked her for a glass of water she 
would not give it. She could not stand such people. 
As to Nana it was different ; they would always receive 
her; the child, of course, was not responsible for her 
10 


154 


l’assommoir. 


mother’s crimes. Coupeau should take a more decided 
6tand, and not put up with his wife’s vile conduct. 

Boche and his wife sat in judgment on the quarrel, 
and gave as their opinion that the Lorilleux were much 
to blame. They were good tenants, of course. They 
paid regularly. “ But,” added Madanfe Boche, “ I never 
could abide jealousy. They are mean people and were 
never known to offer a glass of wine to a friend.” 

Mother Coupeau visited her son and daughter suc- 
cessive days, listened to the tales of each, and said 
never a word in reply. 

Gervaise lived a busy life, and took no notice of all 
this foolish gossip and strife. She greeted her friends 
with a smile from the door of her shop, where she went 
for a breath of fresh air. All the people in the neigh- 
borhood liked her, and would have called her a great 
beauty but for her lameness. She was twenty-eight, 
and had grown plump. She moved more slowly, and 
when she took a chair to wait for her irons to heat, she 
rose with reluctance. She was growing fond of good 
living, that she herself admitted, but she did not regard 
it as a fault. She worked hard and had a right to good 
food. Why should she live on potato-parings ? Some- 
times she worked all night when she had a great deal 
of work on hand. 

She did the washing for the whole house; and 
for some Parisian ladies, and had several apprentices, 
beside two laundresses. She was making money hand 
over fist, and her good luck would have turned a wiser 


l’assommoir. 


155 


head than her own. But hers was not turned ; she 
was gentle and sweet, and hated no one except her 
sister-in-law. She judged everybody kindly, particu- 
larly after she had eaten a good breakfast. When 
people called her good she laughed. Why should she 
not be good? She had seen all her dreams realized. 
She remembered what she once said — that she wanted 
to work hard, have plenty to eat — a home to herself, 
where she could bring up her children — not be beaten, 
and die in her bed ! As to dying in her bed, she added — 
she wanted that still, but she would put it off as long as 
possible, “ if you please ! ” It was to Coupeau himself 
that Gervaise was especially sweet. Never a cross or an 
impatient word had he heard from her lips, and no one 
had ever known her complain of him behind his back. 
He had finally resumed his trade, and as the shop where 
he worked was at the other end of Paris, she gave him 
every morning forty sous for his breakfast, his wine and 
tobacco. Two days out of six, however, Coupeau would 
meet a friend, drink up his forty sous, and return to 
breakfast. Once, indeed, he sent a note, saying that 
his account at the cabaret exceeded his forty sous — he 
was in pledge, as it were — would his wife send the 
money? She laughed and shrugged her shoulders. 
Where was the harm in her husband’s amusing himself 
a little ? A woman must give a man a long rope if she 
wished to live in peace and comfort. It was not far 
from words to blows — she knew that very well. 

The hot weather had come. One afternoon in June 


156 


l’assommoir. 


the ten irons were heating on the stove, the door was 
open into the street, but not a breath of air came in. 

“What a melting day!” said Gervaise, who was 
stooping over a great bowl of starch. She had rolled 
up her sleeves and taken off her s icque, and stood in her 
chemise and white skirt ; the soft hair in her neck was 
curling on her white throat. She dipped each cuff in 
the starch, the fronts of the shirts and the whole of the 
skirts. Then she rolled up the pieces tightly and 
placed them neatly in a square basket, after having 
sprinkled with clear water all those portions which were 
not starched. 

“ This basket is for you, Madame Putois,” she said ; 
“ and you will have to hurry, for they dry so fast in 
this weather.” 

Madame Putois was a thin little woman, who looked 
cool and comfortable in her tightly-buttoned dress. 
She had not taken her cap off, but stood at the table, 
moving her irons to and fro with the regularity of an 
automaton. Suddenly she exclaimed : 

“ Put on your sacque, Cldmence ; there are three men 
looking in, and I don’t like such things. ” 

Cl&nence grumbled and growled. What did she 
care what she liked ? She could not and would not 
roast to suit anybody. 

“ eminence, put on your sacque,” said Gervaise; 
“ Madame Putois is right — it is not proper. ” 

Cl^mence muttered, but obeyed, and consoled herself 
by giving the apprentice, who was ironing hose and 


l’assommoie. 


157 


towels by her side, a little push. Gervaise had a cap 
belonging to Madame Boche in her hand, and was 
ironing the crown with a round ball, when a tall bony 
woman came in. She was a laundress. 

“ You have come too soon, Madame Bijard ! ” cried 
Gervaise ; “ I said to-night. It is very inconvenient 
for me to attend to you at this hour.” At the same 
time, however, Gervaise amiably laid down her work 
and went for the dirty clothes, which she piled up in 
the back shop. It took the two women nearly an hour 
to sort them and mark them with a stitch of colored 
cotton. 

At this moment Coupeau entered. 

“By Jove ! ” he said; “the sun beats down on one’s 
head like a hammer.” He caught at the table to sus- 
tain himself; he had been drinking — a spider’s web 
had caught in his dark hair, where many a white thread 
was apparent. His under jaw dropped a little, and his 
smile was good-natured but silly. 

Gervaise asked her husband if he had seen the Lor- 
illeux, in rather a severe tone; when he said no, she 
smiled at him without a word of reproach. 

“ You had best go and lie down” she said pleasantly, 
“ we are very busy and you are in our way. Did I say 
thirty-two handkerchiefs, Madame Bijard? Here are 
two more, that makes thirty-four.” 

But Coupeau was not sleepy and he preferred to 
remain where he was. Gervaise called Cl<5mence and 
bade her to count the linen while she made out the 


158 


l’assommoir. 


list. She glanced at each piece as she wrote. She 
knew many of them by the color. That pillow-slip 
belonged to Madame Boche because it was stained with 
the pomade she always used, and so on through the 
whole. Gervaise was seated with these piles of soiled 
linen about her. Augustine, whose great delight was 
to fill up the stove had done so now, and it was red 
hot. Coupeau leaned toward Gervaise. 

“ Kiss me,” he said. “ You are a good woman.” 

As he spoke he gave a sudden lurch and fell among 
the skirts. 

“ Do take care,” said Gervaise impatiently, “ you will 
get them all mixed again,” and she gave him a little 
push with her foot whereat all the other women cried 

But. 

“ He is not like most men ” said Madame Putois, “ they 
generally wish to beat you when they come in like this.” 

Gervaise already regretted her momentary vexation 
and assisted her husband to his feet and then turned 
her cheek to him with a smile, but he put his arm 
round her and kissed her neck. She pushed him aside 
wit h a laugh. 

“ You ought to be ashamed!” she said, but yielded 
to his embrace, and the long kiss they exchanged 
before these people, amid the sickening odor of the 
soiled linen, and the alcoholic fumes of his breath, was 
the first downward step in the slow descent of theii 
degradation. 

Madame Bijard tied up the linen and staggered off 


l’assommoir. 


159 


under their weight while Gervaise turned back to finish 
her cap. Alas ! The stove and the irons were alike red 
hot; she must wait a quarter of an hour before she 
could touch the irons and Gervaise covered the fire 
with a couple of shovelfuls of cinders. She then hung 
a sheet before the window to keep out the sun. Oou- 
peau took a place in the corner, refusing to budge an 
inch, and his wife and all her assistants went to work 
on each side of the square table. Each woman had at 
her right a flat brick on which to set her iron. In the 
centre of the table was a dish of water with a rag and 
a brush in it, and also a bunch of tall white lilies in a 
broken jar. 

Madame Putois had attacked the basket of linen 
prepared by Gervaise, and Augustine was iioning her 
towels, with her nose in the air, deeply interested in a 
fly that was buzzing about. As to Cl^mence she was 
polishing off her thirty-fifth shirt ; as she boasted of this 
great feat, Coupeau staggered toward her. 

“ Madame,” she called, “ please keep him away, he 
will bother me and I shall scorch my shirt.” 

“Let her be,” said Gervaise, without any especial 
energy, “ we are in a great hurry to-day ! ” 

Well! that was not his fault, he did not mean to 
touch the girl, he only wanted to see what she was 
about. 

“ Really,” said his wife, looking up from her fluting 
Iron. “ I think you had best go to bed.” 

He began to talk again. 


160 


l’assommoir. 


44 You need not make suck a fuss, Cl&nence, it is only 
because these women are here, and ” 

But he could say no more, Gervaise quietly laid one 
hand on his mouth and the other on his shoulder and 
pushed him toward his room. He struggled a little, 
and with a silly laugh asked if Cl^mence was not com- 
ing too. 

Gervaise undressed her husband and tucked him up 
in bed as if he had been a child, and then returned to 
her fluting irons in time to still a grand dispute that 
was going on about an iron that had not been properly 
cleaned. 

In the profound silence that followed her appearance, 
she could hear her husband’s thick voice. 

“ What a silly wife I’ve got! The idea of putting 
me to bed in broad daylight ! ” 

Suddenly he began to snore, and Gervaise uttered a 
sigh of relief. She used her fluting-iron for a minute, 
and then said quietly : 

“ There is no need of being offended by anything a 
man does when he is in this state. He is not an 
accountable being. He did not intend to insult you. 
Cl^mence, you know what a tipsy man is — he respects 
neither father nor mother.” 

She uttered these words in an indifferent, matter-of- 
fact way, not in the least disturbed that he had forgot- 
ten the respect due to her and to her roof, and really 
seeing no harm in his conduQt. 

The work now went steadily on, and Gervaise 


l’assommoir. 


161 


calculated they would have finished by eleven o’clock 
The heat was intense — the smell of charcoal deadened 
the air ; while the branch of white lilies slowly faded, 
and filled the room with their sweetness. 

The day after all this, Coupeau had a frightful head 
ache, and did not rise until late — too late to go to his 
work. About noon he began to feel better, and toward 
evening was quite himself. His wife gave him some 
silver, and told him to go out and take the air, which 
meant with him, taking some wine. 

One glass washed down another, but he came home 
as gay as a lark, and quite disgusted with the men he 
had seen who were drinking themselves to death. 

“ Where is your lover ? ” he said to his wife, as he 
entered the shop. This was his favorite joke. “I 
never see him nowadays, and must hunt him up.” 

He meant Goujet, who came but rarely, lest the gos- 
sips in the neighborhood should take it upon themselves 
to gabble. Once in about ten days he made his ap- 
pearance in the evening, and installed himself in a 
corner in the back shop, with his pipe. He rarely 
spoke, but laughed at all Gervaise said. 

On Saturday evenings the establishment was kept 
open half the night. A lamp hung from the cei’ing, 
with the light thrown down by a shade. The shutters 
were put up at the usual time, but as the nights were 
very warm, the door was left open ; and as the hours 
wore on, the women pulled their jackets open a little 
more at the throat, and he sat in his corner and looked 
on as if he were at a theatre. 


162 


l’assommoir. 


The silence of the street was broken by a passing 
carriage. Two o’clock struck — no longer a sound 
from outside. At half-past two a man hurried past the 
door, carrying with him a vision of flying arms, piles of 
white linen, and a glow of yellow light. 

Goujet, wishing to save Etienne from CoupeaTs 
rough treatment, had taken him to the place where he 
was employed, to blow the bellows, with the prospect 
of becoming an apprentice as soon as he was old enough ; 
and Etienne thus became another tie between the clear 
starcher and the blacksmith. 

All their little world laughed, and told Gervaise that 
her friend worshipped the very ground she trod upon. 
She colored and looked like a girl of sixteen. 

“ Dear boy,” she said to herself, “ I know he loves 
me ; but never has he said, or will he say, a word of 
the kind to me ! ” And she was proud of being loved 
in this way. When she was disturbed about anything, 
her first thought was to go to him. When by chance 
they were left alone together, they were never dis- 
turbed by wondering if their friendship verged on love. 
There was no harm in such affection. 

Nana was now six years old and a most troublesome 
little sprite. Her mother took her every morning to a 
school in la Rue Polon^eau, to a certain Mademoiselle 
Josse. Here she did all manner of mischief. She put 
ashes into the teacher’s snuff box, pinned the skirts 
of her companions together. Twice the young lady 
was sent home in disgrace, and then taken back again 


l’assommoir. 


163 


for tlie sake of the six francs each month. As soon as 
school hours were over, Nana revenged herself for the 
hours of enforced quiet she had passed, by making the 
most frightful din in the courtyard and the shop. 

She found able allies in Pauline and Victor Boche. 
The whole great house resounded with the most extra- 
ordinary noises. The thumps of children falling down 
stairs, little feet tearing up one stair-case and down 
another, and bursting out on the sidewalk like a band of 
pilfering, impudent sparrows. 

Madame Gaudron alone had nine — dirty, unwashed 
and unkempt — their stockings hanging over their shoes 
and the slits in their garments showing the white skin 
Deneatli. Another woman on the fifth floor had seven, 
and they came out in twos and threes from all the 
rooms. Nana reigned over this band, among which 
there were some half-grown and others mere infants. 
Her prime ministers were Pauline and Victor ; to them 
she delegated a little of her authority, while she played 
mamma — undressed the youngest only to dress them 
again — cuffed them and punished them at her own 
sweet will, and with the most fantastic disposition. 
The band pranced and waded through the gutter that 
ran from the dye-house and emerged with blue or green 
legs. Nana decorated herself and the others with 
shavings from the cabinet makers, which they stole 
from under the very noses of the workmen. 

The courtyard belonged to all of these children appar- 
ently, and resounded with the clatter of their heels. 


164 


l’assommoir. 


Sometimes this court-yard, however, was not enough fcf 
them, and they spread in every direction to the infinite 
disgust of Madame Boche, who grumbled all in vain. 
Boche declared that the children of the poor were as 
plentiful as mushrooms on a dungheap, and his wife 
threatened them with her broom. 

One day there was a terrible scene. Nana had invented 
a beautiful game. She had stolen a wooden shoe belong- 
ing to Madame Boche; she bored a hole in it and put in 
a string, by which she could draw it like a cart. Victor 
filled it with apple-parings, and they started forth in a 
procession, Nana drawing the shoe in front, followed by 
the whole flock, little and big, an imp about the height of 
a cigar box at the end. They all sang a melancholy ditty 
full of “ah’s” and. “oh’s.” Nana declared this to be 
always the custom at funerals. 

“What on earth are they doing now?” murmured 
Madame Boche suspiciously, and then she came to the 
door and peered out. 

“ Good heavens ! ” she cried ; “ it is my own shoe they 
have got.” * 

She slapped Nana, cuffed Pauline and shook Victor. 
Gervaise was filling a bucket at the fountain, and when 
she saw Nana with her nose bleeding, she rushed toward 
the Concierge, and asked how she dared strike her child. 

The Concierge replied that any one who had a child 
like that, had best keep her under lock and key. The 
end of this was, of course, a complete break between the 
old friends. 


L’ASSOJIMOIR. 


165 


But, in fact, the quarrel had been growing for a month. 
Gervaise, generous by nature, and knowing the tastes of 
the Boche people, was in the habit of making them con- 
stant presents — oranges, a little hot soup, a cake, or 
something of the kind. One evening, knowing that the 
Concierge would sell her soul for a good salad, she took 
her the remains of a dish of beets and chiccory. The next 
day she was dumbfounded at hearing from Mademoiselle 
Remanjon, how Madame Boche had thrown the salad 
away, saying that she was not yet reduced to eating the 
leavings of other people ! From that day forth, Gervaise 
sent her nothing more. The Boches had learned to look 
on her little offerings as their right, and they now felt 
themselves to be robbed by the Coupeaus. 

It was not long before Gervaise realized she had made 
a mistake — for when she was one day late with her 
October rent, Madame Boche complained to the proprietor, 
who came blustering to her shop with his hat on. Of 
course, too, the Lorilleux extended the right hand of 
fellowship at once to the Boche people. 

There came a day, however, when Gervaise found it 
necessary to call on the Lorilleux. It was on Mamma 
Coupeau’s account, who was sixty-seven years old, nearly 
blind and helpless. They must all unite in doing some- 
thing for her now. Gervaise thought it a burning shame 
that a woman of her age, with three well-to-do children, 
should be allowed for a moment to regard herself as friend- 
less and forsaken. And as her husband refused to speak 
to his sister, Gervaise said she would. 


166 


l’assommoin 

She entered the room like a whirlwind, without knock 
ing. Everything was just the same as it was on that 
night when she had been received by them in a fashion 
which she had never forgotten nor forgiven. “I have 
come,” cried Gervaise, “and I dare say you wish to ‘know 
why, particularly as we are at daggers-drawn. Well ! 
then, I have come on Mamma Coupeau’s account. I have 
come to ask if we are to allow her to beg her bread from 
door to door — ” 

“ Indeed ! ” said Madame Lorillcux, with a sneer, and 
she turned away. 

But Lorilleux lifted his pale face. 

“What do you mean?” he asked, and as he had under- 
stood perfectly, he went on. 

“ What is this cry of poverty about? The old lady -ate 
her dinner with us yesterday. We do all we can for her, 
I am sure. We have not the mines of Peru within our 
reach, but if she thinks she is to run to and fro between 
our houses, she is much mistaken. I, for one, have no 
liking for spies.” He then added, as he took up his 
microscope, “ \V hen the rest of you agree to give five francs 
per month toward her support, we will do the same.” 
Gervaise was calmer now — these people always chilled the 
very marrow in her bones — and she went on to explain her 
views. Five francs were not enough for each of the old 
lady’s children to pay. She could not live on fifteen 
francs per month. 

“And why not?” cried Lorilleux. “she ought to do so. 
She can see well enough to find the best bits in a dish 


167 


\ > x 

l’assommoir. 

before her, and she can do something toward her own 
maintenance.” If lie had the means to indulge such lazi- 
ness he should not consider it his duty to do so, he added. 

Then Gervaise grew angry again. She looked at her 
sister-in-law, and saw her face set in vindictive firmness. 

“Keep your money,” she cried. “I will take care of 
your mother. I found a starving cat in the street the 
other night and took it in. I can take in your mother 
too. She shall want for nothing. Good heavens, what 
people ! ” 

Madame Lorilleux snatched up a saucepan. • 

“Clear out,” she said, hoarsely. “ I will never give one 
sou — no, not one sou toward her keep. I understand you ! 
You will make my mother work for you like a slave, and 
put my five francs in your pocket! Not if I know it, 
Madame! And if she goes to live under your roof I will 
never see her again. Be off with you, I say !” 

“What a monster!” cried Gervaise, as she shut the 
door with a bang. 

On the very next day, Madame Coupeau came to her. 
A large bed was put in the room where Nana slept. The 
moving did not take long, for the old lady had only this 
bed, a wardrobe, table, and two chairs. The table was 
sold, and the chairs new-seated; and the old lady the 
evening of her arrival washed the dishes and swept up 
the room, glad to make herself useful. Madame Lerat 
had amused herself bv quarrelling with her sister, to 
whom she had expressed her admiration of the generosity 
evinced by Gervaise ; and when she saw that Madame 


168 


L ’ A S S O M M O I R . 


Lorilleux was intensely exasperated, she declared she had 
never seen such eyes in anybody’s head as those of the 
clear-starcher. She really believed one might light paper 
at them. This declaration naturally led to bitter words, 
and the sisters parted, swearing they would never see each 
other again; and since then Madame Lerat had spent most 
of her evenings at her brother’s. 

Three years passed away. There were reconciliations 
and new quarrels. Gervaise continued to be liked by her 
neighbors: she paid her bills regularly, and was a good 
customer. When she went out she received cordial greet- 
ing on all sides, and she was more fond of going out in 
these days than of yore. She liked to stand at the corners 
and chat. She liked to loiter with her arms full of 
bundles at a neighbor’s window and hear a little gossip. 


i/assommoir. 


169 


CHAPTER VI. 

GOUJET AT HIS FORGE. 

O NE autumnal afternoon Gervaise, who had been to 
carry a basket of clothes home to a customer who 
lived a good way off, found herself in La Rue des 
PoissonniSrs just as it was growing dark. It had rained 
in the morning, and the air was close and warm. She 
was tired with her walk, and felt a great desire for some- 
thing good to eat. Just then she lifted her eyes and see- 
ing the name of the street, she took it into her head that 
she would call on Goujet at his forge. But she would ask 
for fitienne, she said to herself. She did not know the 
number, but she could find it, she thought. She wandered 
along and stood bewildered, looking toward Montmartre; 
all at once she heard the measured click of hammers 
— and concluded that she had stumbled on the place 
at last. She did not know where the entrance to the 
building was, but she caught a gleam of a red light in 
the distance; she walked toward it and was met by a 
workman. 

“Is it here, sir,” she said, timidly, “that my child — 
a little boy, that is to say — works ? A little boy by the 
name of fitienne?” 

“ £tienne ! fitienne ! ” repeated the man, swaying from 
side to side. The wind brought from him to her an 
II 


170 


l’assommoir. 


intolerable smell of brandy, which caused Gervaise to 
draw back, and say timidly: 

“ Is it here that Monsieur Goujet works?” 

“Ah ! Goujet, yes. If it is Goujet you wish to see, go 
to the left.” 

Gervaise obeyed his instructions and found herself in 
a large room with the forge at the further end. She 
spoke to the first man she saw, when suddenly the whole 
room was one blaze of light. The bellows had sent, up 
leaping flames which lighted every crevice and corner of 
the dusty old building, and Gervaise recognized Goujet 
before the forge, with two other men. She went toward 
him. 

“Madame Gervaise!” he exclaimed in surprise, his 
face radiant with joy, and then seeing his companions 
laugh and wink, he pushed Etienne toward his mother. 
“You came to see your boy,” he said ; “ he does his duty 
like a hero.” 

“ I am glad of it,” she answered ; “ but what an awful 
place this is to get at ! ” 

And she described her journey as she called it, and then 
asked why no one seemed to know Etienne there. 

“Because,” said the blacksmith, “he is called Zou Zou 
here, as his hair is cut as short as a Zouave’s.” 

This visit paid by Gervaise to the Forge was only the 
first of many others. She often went on Saturdays when 
she carried the clean linen to Madame Goujet, who still 
resided in the same house as before. The first year 
G rvaise had paid them twenty francs each month, or 


l'assommoir. 


m 


rather the difference between the amount of their washing, 
seven or eight francs, and the twenty which she agreed 
upon. In this way she had paid half the money she had 
borrowed, when one quarter-day, not knowing to whom 
to turn, as she had not been able to collect her bills 
punctually, she ran to the Goujets and borrowed the 
amount of her rent from them. Twice since she had 
asked a similar favor, so that the amount of her indebted- 
ness now stood at four hundred and twenty-five francs. 

Now she no longer paid any cash, but did their washing. 
It was not that she worked less hard nor that her business 
was falling off. Quite the contrary ; but money had a 
way of melting away in her hands, and she was content 
nowadays if she could only make both ends meet. What 
was the use of fussing, she thought? If she could manage 
to live that was all that was necessary. She was growing 
quite stout withal. 

Madame Goujet was always kind to Gervaise: not 
because of any fear of losing her money, but because she 
really loved her, and was afraid of her- going wrong in 
some way. 

The Saturday after the first visit paid by Gervaise to 
the Forge was also the first of the month. When she 
reached Madame Goujet’s, her basket was so heavy that 
she panted for two good minutes before she could speak. 
Every one knows how heavy shirts and such things are. 

“Have you brought everything?” asked Madame 
Goujet, who was very exacting on this point. She insisted 
on every piece being returned each week. Another thing 


172 


l’assommoir. 


she exacted was that the clothes should be brought back 
always oil the same day and hour. 

“ Everything is here,” answered Gervaise, with a smile. 
“You know I never leave anything behind.” 

“ That is true,” replied the elder woman. “ You have 
many faults, my dear ; but not that one yet.” 

And while the laundress emptied her basket, laying the 
linen on the bed, Madame Goujet paid her many com- 
pliments. She never burned her clothes, nor ironed off 
the buttons, nor tore them ; but she did use a trifle too 
much blueing, and made her shirts too stiff. 

“ Feel,” she said, “ it is like pasteboard. My son never 
complains, but I know he does not like them so.” 

“And they shall not be so again,” said Gervaise. “ No 
one ever touches any of your things but myself, and I 
would do them over ten times rather than see you 
dissatisfied.” 

She colored as she spoke. 

“I have no intention of disparaging your work,” 
answered Madame Goujet. “ I never saw any one who 
did up laces and embroideries as you do, and the fluting 
.is simply perfect: the only trouble is a little too much 
starch, my dear. Goujet does not care to look like a fine 
gentleman.” 

She took up her book and drew a pen through the 
pieces as she spoke. Everything was there. She brought 
out the bundle of soiled clothes. Gervaise put them in 
her basket, and hesitated. 

“Madame Goujet,” she said, at last, “if you do not 


l’assommoir. 173 

mind, I should like to have the money for this week’s 
wash.” 

The account this month was larger than usual, ten 
francs and over. Madame Goujet looked at her gravely. 

“ My child,” she said, slowly, “ it shall be as you 
wish. I do not refuse to give you the money if you 
desire it ; only this is not the way to get out of debt. 1 
say this with no unkindness, you understand. Only you 
must take care.” 

Gervaise, with downcast eyes, received the lesson 
meekly. “She needed the ten francs to complete the 
amount due the coal merchant,” she said. 

But her friend heard this with a stern countenance, and 
told her she should reduce her expenses; but she did not 
add, that she too, intended to do the same, and that in 
future she should do her washing herself, as she had 
formerly done, if she were to be out of pocket thus. 

When Gervaise was on the staircase her heart was 
light, for she cared little for the reproof now that she 
had the ten francs in her hand; she was becoming 
accustomed to paying one debt by contracting another. 

Midway on the stairs she met a tall woman coming up 
with a fresh mackerel in her hand, and behold ! it was 
Virginie, the girl whom she bad whipped in the Lavatory. 
The two looked each other full in the face. Gervaise in- 
stinctively closed her eyes, for she thought the girl would 
slap her in the face with the mackerel. But no; Virginie 
gave a constrained smile. Then the laundress, whose huge 
basket filled up the stairway, and who did not choose to 
be outdone in politeness, said : 


174 


L A SSOMMOIR. 


“ I beg your pardon — ” 

“ Pray don’t apologize,” answered Virginie, in a stately 
fashion. 

And they stood and talked for a few minutes with not 
the smallest allusion, however, to the past. 

Virginie, then about twenty-nine, was really a magnifi- 
cent-looking woman ; head well-set on her shoulders, and 
a long, oval face crowned by bands of glossy black hair. 
She told her history in a few brief words. She was 
married. Had married the previous spring a cabinet- 
maker who had given up his trade, and was hoping to 
obtain a position on the police force. She had just been 
out to buy this mackerel for him. 

“ He adores them,” she said, “ and we women spoil our 
husbands, I think. But come up. We are standing in a 
draught here.” 

When Gervaise had in her turn told her story, and 
added that Virginie was living in the very rooms where 
she had lived, and where her child was born, Virginie be- 
came still more urgent that she should go up. “It is 
always pleasant to see a place where one has been 
happy,” she said. “ She herself had been living on the 
other side of the water, but had got tired of it, and had 
moved into these rooms only two weeks ago. She was not 
settled yet. Her name was Madame Poisson.” 

“And mine,” said Gervaise, “ is Coupeau.” 

Gervaise was a little suspicious of all this courtesy. 
Might not some terrible revenge be hidden under it all ? 
and she determined to be well on her guard. But as 


l’assommoie. 175 

Virginie was so polite just now*, she must be polite in her 
turn. 

Poisson, the husband, was a man of thirty-five, with a 
moustache and imperial ; he was seated at a table near the 
window, making little boxes. His only tools were a pen- 
knife, a tiny saw, and a glue pot; he was executing the 
most wonderful and delicate carving, however. He never 
sold his work, but made presents of it to his friends. It 
amused him while he was awaiting his appointment. 

Poisson rose, and bowed politely to Gervaise, whom his 
wife called an old friend. But he did not speak — his 
conversational powers not being his strong point. He cast 
a plaintive glance at the mackerel, however, from time to 
time. Gervaise looked around the room, and described 
her furniture, and where it had stood. How strange it 
was, after losing sight of each other so long, that they 
should occupy the same apartment! Virginie entered into 
new details. He had a small inheritance from his aunt, 
and she herself sewed a little — made a dress now and then. 
At the end of a half hour Gervaise rose to depart ; Vir- 
ginie went to the head of the stairs with her, and there 
both hesitated. Gervaise fancied that Virginie wished to 
say something about Lantier and Ad&le, but they separated 
without touching on these disagreeable topics. 

This was the beginning of a great friendship. In 
another week Virginie could not pass the shop without 
going in, and sometimes she remained for two or three 
hours. At first, Gervaise was very uncomfortable; she 
thought every time Virginie opened her lips that she 


17 6 


l'assom moie. 


should hear Lan tier’s name. La n tier was in her mind all 
the time she was with Madame Poisson. It was a stupid 
thing to do after all, for what on earth did she care what 
had become of Lantier or of Adele ? but she was none the 
less curious to know something about them. 

Winter had come — the fourth winter that the Coupeaus 
had spent in La Rue de la Goutte d’Or. This year 
December and January were especially severe, and after 
New Year’s the snow lay three weeks in the street without 
melting. There was plenty of work for Gervaise, and her 
shop was delightfully warm and singularly quiet, for the 
carriages made no noise in the snow-covered streets. The 
laughs and shouts of the children were almost the only 
sounds ; they had made a long slide, and enjoyed them- 
selves hugely. 

Gervaise took especial pleasure in her coffee at noon. 
Her apprentices had no reason to complain, for it was hot 
and strong and unadulterated by chiccory. On the morn- 
ing of Twelfth Day the clock had struck twelve and then 
half-past, and the coffee was not ready. Gervaise was 
ironing some muslin curtains. Clemenee, with a frightful 
cold, was as usual at work on a man’s shirt. Madame 
Putois was ironing a skirt on a board, with a cloth laid on 
the floor to prevent the skirt from being soiled. Mamma 
Coupeau brought in the coffee, and as each one of the 
women took a cup with a sigh of enjoyment, the street 
door opened, and Virginie came in with a rush of cold air. 

“ Heavens ! ” she cried, “ it is awful ! my ears are cut 
off!” 


L'ASSOMMOIE. 


177 


“ You have come just in time for a cup of hot coffee,” 
said Gervaise, cordially. 

“And I shall be only too glad to have it!” answered 
Virginie, with a shiver. She had been waiting at the 
grocer’s, she said, until she was chilled through and 
through. The heat of that room was delicious, and then 
she stirred her coffee, and said she liked the damp, sweet 
smell of the freshly ironed linen. She and Mamma Cou- 
peau were the only ones who had chairs ; the others sat on 
wooden footstools, so low that they seemed to be on the 
floor. Virginie suddenly stooped down to her hostess, and 
said, with a smile : 

“ Do you remember that day at the Lavatory ? ” 

Gervaise colored; she could not answer. This was just 
what she had been dreading. In a moment she felt sure 
she should hear Lantier’s name. She knew it was coming. 
Virginie drew nearer to her. The apprentices lingered 
over their coffee, and told each other, as they looked stupidly 
into the street, what they would do if they had an income 
of ten thousand francs. Virginie changed her seat and 
took a footstool by the side of Gervaise, who felt weak 
and cowardly, and helpless to change the conversation, or 
to stave off what was coming. She breathlessly awaited 
the next words, her heart big with an emotion which she 
would not acknowledge to herself. 

“ I do not wish to give you any pain,” said Virginie, 
blandly. “Twenty times the words have been on my 
lips, but I hesitated. Pray don’t think I bear you any 
malice.” 


178 


l’assommoir. 


She tipped up her cup and drank the last drop of her 
coffee. Gervaise, with her heart in her mouth, waited in 
a dull agony of suspense, asking herself if Virginie could 
have forgiven the insult in the Lavatory. There was a 
glitter in the woman’s eyes she did not like. 

“You had an excuse,” Virginie added, as she placed 
her cup on the table. “You had been abominably 
treated. I should have killed some one,” and then 
dropping her little affected tone, she continued more rap- 
idly — 

“ They were not happy, I assure you, not at all happy. 
They lived in a dirty street, where the mud was up to their 
knees. I went to breakfast with them two days after he 
left you, and found them in the height of a quarrel. You 
know that Ad6le is a wretch. She is my sister, to be sure, 
but she is a wretch all the same. As to Lantier — well, you 
know him, so I need not describe him. But for a ‘yes’ or 
a ‘ no,’ he would not hesitate to thrash any woman that 
lives. Oh, they had a beautiful time! their quarrels were 
heard all over the neighborhood. One day the police were 
sent for, they made such a hubbub.” 

She talked on and on, telling things that were enough 
to make the hair stand up on one’s head. Gervaise lis- 
tened, as pale as death, with a nervous trembling of her 
lips which might have been taken for a smile. For seven 
years she had never heard Lantier’s name, and she would 
not have believed that she could have felt any such over- 
whelming agitation. She could no longer be jealous of 
Adele, but she smiled grimly as she thought of the blows 


l’absommoie. 


179 


she had received in her turn from Lantier, and she would 
have listened for hours to all that Virginie had to tell ; 
but she did not ask a question for some time. Finally 
she said : 

“And do they still live in that same place?” 

“ No, indeed ! but I have not told you all yet. They 
separated a week ago.” 

“Separated!” exclaimed the clear-starcher. 

“Who is separated?” asked Clemence, interrupting her 
conversation with Mamma Coupeau. 

“ No one,” said Virginie, “ or at least no one whom you 
know.” 

As she spoke she looked at Gervaise, and seemed to take 
a positive delight in disturbing her still more. She sud- 
denly asked her, what she would do or say if Lantier should 
suddenly make his appearance, for men were so strange, no 
one could ever tell what they would do — Lantier was quite 
capable of returning to his old love. Then Gervaise inter- 
rupted her and rose to the occasion. She answered with 
grave, quiet dignity that she was married now, and that 
if Lantier should appear she should ask him to leave. 
There could never be anything more between them, not 
even the most distant acquaintance. 

“ I know very well,” she said, “ that fitienne belongs to 
him, and if Lantier desires to see his son, I shall place 
no obstacle in his way. But as to myself, Madame 
Poisson, he shall never touch my little finger again ! It 
is finished.” 

As she uttered these last words she traced a cross in the 


180 


l’assommoie. 


air to seal her oath ; and as if desirous to put an end to the 
conversation, she called out to her women — 

“ Do you think the ironing will be done to-day, if you 
sit still ? To work ! to work ! ” 

The women did not move; they were lulled to apathy 
by the heat, and Gervaise herself found it very difficult 
to resume her labors. Her curtains had dried in all this 
time, and some coffee had been spilled on them, and she 
must wash out the spots. 

“Au revoir!” said Virginie. “ I came out to buy a 
half-pound of cheese. Poisson will think I am frozen to 
death!” 

The better part of the day was now gone, and it was this 
way every day — for the shop was the refuge and haunt of 
all the chilly people in the neighborhood. Gervaise liked 
the reputation of having the most comfortable room in the 
Quartier, and she held her receptions — as the Lorilleux 
and Boche clique said, with a sniff of disdain. She would, 
in fact, have liked to bring in the very poor whom she saw 
shivering outside. She became very friendly toward a 
journeyman painter, an old man of seventy, who lived in 
a loft of the house, where he shivered with cold and hunger. 
He had lost his three sons in the Crimea, and for two 
years his hand had been so cramped by rheumatism that 
he could not hold a brush. 

Whenever Gervaise saw Father Bru she called him in, 
made a place for him near the stove, and gave him some 
bread and cheese. Father Bru, with his white beard, 
and his face wrinkled like an old apple, sat in silent 


l’assommoie. 


181 


content, for hours at a time, enjoying the warmth and the 
crackling of the coke. 

“What are you thinking about?” Gervaise would say, 
gayly. 

“ Of nothing — of all sorts of things,” he would reply, 
with a dazed air. 

The workwomen laughed, and thought it a good joke 
to ask if he were in love. He paid little heed to them, 
but relapsed into silent thought. 

From this time Virginie often spoke to Gervaise of 
Lantier, and one day she said she had just met him. 
But as the clear-starcher made no reply, Virginie then 
said no more. But on the next day she returned to the 
subject, and told her that he had talked long and tenderly 
of her. Gervaise was much troubled by these whispered 
conversations in the corner of her shop. The name of 
Lantier made her faint and sick at heart. She believed 
herself to be an honest woman. She meant, in every way, 
to do right and to shun the wrong, because she felt that 
only in doing so could she be happy. She did not think 
much of Coupeau, because she was conscious of no short- 
comings toward him. But she thought of her friend at 
the Forge, and it seemed to her that this return of her 
interest in Lantier, faint and undecided as it was, was an 
infidelity to Goujet, and to that tender friendship which 
had become so very precious to her. Her heart was much 
troubled in these days. She dwelt on that time when her 
first lover left her. She imagined another day, when, 
quitting Ad6le, he might return to her with that old 
familiar trunk. 


182 


l’assommoie. 


When she went into the street, it was with a spasm of 
terror. She fancied that every step behind her was 
Lantier’s. She dared not look around, lest his hand 
should glide about her waist. He might be watching for 
her at any time. He might come to her door in the 
afternoon, and this idea brought a cold sweat to her 
forehead, because he would certainly kiss her on her ear, 
as he had often teased her by doing in the years gone by. 
It was this kiss she dreaded. Its dull reverberation 
deafened her to all outside sounds, and she could hear 
only the beatings of her own heart. When these terrors 
assailed her, the Forge was her only asylum, from whence 
she returned smiling and serene, feeling that Goujet — 
whose sonorous hammer had put all her bad dreams to 
flight — would protect her always. 

What a happy season this was after all! The clear- 
starcher always carried a certain basket of clothes to her 
customer each week, because it gave her a pretext for 
going into the Forge, as it was on her way. As soon as 
she turned the corner of the street in which it was situ- 
ated, she felt as light-hearted as if she were going to the 
country. The black charcoal dust in the road, the black 
smoke rising slowly from the chimneys, interested and 
pleased her as much as a mossy path through the woods. 
Afar off the forge was red even at mid-day, and her 
heart danced in time with the hammers. Goujet was 
expecting her and making more noise than usual, that she 
might hear him at a greater distance. She gave Etienne 
a light tap on his cheek, and sat quietly watching these 


l’assommoir. 


183 


two — this man and boy, who were so dear to her — for an 
hour without speaking. When the sparks touched her 
tender skin, she rather enjoyed the sensation. He, in his 
turn, was fully aware of the happiness she felt in being 
there, and he reserved the work which required skill, for 
the time when she could look on in wonder and admira- 
tion. It was an idyl that they were unconsciously 
enacting all that spring, and when Gervaist returned to 
her home, it was in a spirit of sweet content. 

By degrees her unreasonable fears of Lantier were con- 
quered. Coupeau was behaving very badly at this time, 
and one evening, as she passed the Assommoir, she was 
certain she saw him drinking with Mes-Bottes. She 
hurried on lest she should seem to be watching him. But 
as she hastened she looked over her shoulder. Yes, it was 
Coupeau who was tossing down a glass of liquor with an 
air as if it were no new thing. He had lied to her, then; 
he did drink brandy. She was in utter despair, and ail 
her old horror of brandy returned. Wine she could have 
forgiven — wine was good for a working man; liquor, on 
the contrary, was his ruin, and took from him all desire 
for the food that nourished, and gave him strength for his 
daily toil. Why did not the government interfere and 
prevent the manufacture of such pernicious things? 

When she reached her home she found the whole house 
in confusion. Her employes had left their work and 
were in the court-yard. She asked what the matter was. 

“It is Father Bijard beating his wife; he is as drunk as 
a fool, and he drove her up the stairs to her room, where 
he is murdering her. Just listen!” 


184 


l’assommoir. 


Gervaise flew up the stairs. She was very fond of Mad- 
ame Bijard, who was her laundress, and whose courage 
and industry she greatly admired. On the sixth floor a 
little crowd was assembled. Madame Boche stood at 
an open door. 

“Have done!” she cried; “have done! or the police 
will be summoned.” 

No one dared enter the room, because Bijard was well 
known to be like a madman when he was tipsy. He was 
rarely thoroughly sober; and on the occasional days when 
he condescended to work, he always had a bottle of brandy 
at his side. He rarely ate anything, and if a match had 
been touched to his mouth, he would have taken fire like 
a torch. 

“Would you let her be killed!” exclaimed Gervaise, 
trembling from head to foot, and she entered the attic 
room, which was very clean and very bare, for the man 
had sold the very sheets off the bed to satisfy his mad 
passion for drink. In this terrible struggle for life, the 
table had been thrown over, and the two chairs also. On 
the floor lay the poor woman, with her skirts drenched as 
she had come from the wash-tub, her hair streaming over 
her bloody face, uttering low groans at each kick the brute 
gave her. 

The neighbors whispered to each other that she had 
refused to give him the money she had earned that day. 
Boche called up the staircase to his wife: 

“Come down, I say; let him kill her if he will: it will 
only make one fool the less in the world!” 


I/ASSOMMOIR. 


185 


Father Bru followed Gervaise into the room, and the two 
expostulated with the madman. But he turned toward 
them pale and threatening; a white foam glistened on his 
lips, and in his faded eyes there was a murderous expres- 
sion. He grasped Father Bru by the shoulder and threw 
him over the table, and shook Gervaise until her teeth 
chattered, and then returned to his wife, who lay motion- 
less, with her mouth wide open and her eyes closed ; and 
during this frightful scene little Lalie, four years old, was 
in the corner looking on at the murder of her mother. 
The child’s arms were round her sister Henriette, a baby 
who had just been weaned. She stood with a sad, solemn 
face, and serious, melancholy eyes, but shed no tears. 

When Bijard slipped and fell, Gervaise and Father Bru 
helped the poor creature to her feet, who then burst into 
sobs. Lalie went to her side, but she did not cry, for the 
child was already habituated to such scenes. And as 
Gervaise went down the stairs, she was haunted by the 
strange look of resignation and courage in Lalie’s eyes — 
it was an expression belonging to maturity and experience, 
rather than to childhood. 

“Your husband is on the other side of the street,” said 
Cldmence, as soon as she saw Gervaise; “he is as tipsy as 
possible!” 

Coupeau reeled in, breaking a square of glass with his 
shoulder as he missed the doorway. He was not 
tipsy, but drunk, with his teeth set firmly together, and a 
pinched expression about the nose. And Gervaise instantly 
knew that it was the liquor of the Assommoir which had 
12 


186 


l’assommoir. 


vitiated his blood. She tried to smile, and coaxed him to 
go to bed. But he shook her off, and as he passed her gave 
her a blow. 

He was just like the other — the beast up-stairs who was 
now snoring, tired out by beating his wife. She was chilled 
to the heart and desperate. Were all men alike? She 
thought of Lantier and of her husband, and wondered if 
there was no happiness in the world. 


l'assommoir. 


187 


CHAPTER VII. 


A BIRTHDAY FETE, 



IHE 19th of June was the clear-starcher’s birthday. 


-A- There was always an excuse for a fete in the Cou- 
peau mansion — Saints were invented, to serve as a pretext 
for idleness and festivities. Virginie highly commended 
Gervaise for living luxuriously. What was the use of her 
husband drinking up everything? why should she save, for 
her husband to spend at all the wine-shops in the neigh- 
borhood? And Gervaise accepted this excuse. She was 
growing very indolent and much stouter, while her lame- 
ness had perceptibly increased. 

For a whole month they discussed the preparation for 
this fete ; they talked over dishes, and licked their lips. 
They must have something out of the common way. Ger- 
vaise was much troubled as to whom she should invite. 
She wanted exactly twelve at table, not one more nor one 
less. She, her husband, her mother-in-law, and Madame 
Lerat were four. The Goujets and Poissons were four 
more. At first she thought she would not ask her two 
women, Madame Putois and ClSmence, lest it should 
make them too familiar; but as the entertainment was 
constantly under discussion before them, she ended by 
inviting them too. Thus there were ten : she must 
have two more ; she decided on a reconciliation with the 


188 


l’assommoir, 


Lorilleux, who had extended the olive-branch several 
times lately. “ Family quarrels were bad things,” she 
said. When the Boche people heard of this, they showed 
several little courtesies to Gervaise, who felt obliged to 
urge them to come also. This made fourteen without 
counting the children. She had never had a dinner like 
this, and she was both triumphant and terrified. 

The 19th fell on a Monday, and Gervaise thought it 
very fortunate, as she could begin her cooking on Sunday 
afternoon. On Saturday, while the women hurried through 
their work, there was an endless discussion as to what the 
dishes should be. In the last three weeks only one thing 
had been definitely decided upon — a roast goose stuffed 
with onions. The goose had been purchased, and Madame 
Coupeau brought it in that Madame Putois might guess 
its weight. The thing looked enormous, and the fat 
seemed to burst from its yellow skin. 

“ Soup before that, of course,” said Gervaise, u and we 
must have another dish.” 

Clemence proposed rabbits, but Gervaise wanted some- 
thing more distinguished. Madame Putois suggested a 
blanquette du Veau — 

That was a new idea. Veal was always good too. Then 
Madame Coupeau made an allusion to fish, which no one 
seconded. Evidently fish was not in favor. Gervaise pro- 
posed a spare-rib of pork and potatoes, which brightened 
all their faces, just as Virginie came in like a whirlwind. 

“You are just in season. Mamma Coupeau, show her 
the goose,” cried Gervaise. 


l’assommoir. 


189 


Virginie admired it, guessed the weight, and laid it 
down on the ironing-table between an embroidered skirt 
and a pile of shirts. She was evidently thinking of some- 
thing else. She soon led Gervaise into the back shop. 

“I have come to warn you,” she said, quickly. “I just 
met Lantier at the very end of this street, and I am sure 
lie followed me, and I naturally felt alarmed on your 
account, my dear.” 

Gervaise turned very pale. What did he want of her? 
and why on earth should he worry her now amid all the 
busy preparations for the ffite? It seemed as if she never 
in her life had set her heart on anything that she was not 
disappointed. Why was it that she could never have a 
minute’s peace ? 

But Virginie declared that she would look out for 
her. If Lantier followed her she would certainly give 
him over to the police. Pier husband had been in 
office now for a month, and Virginie was very dictatorial 
and aggressive, and talked of arresting every one who 
displeased her. She raised her voice as she spoke, but 
Gervaise implored her to be cautious, because her women 
could hear every word. They went back to the front shop, 
and she was the first to speak. 

“ We have said nothing of vegetables,” she said, quietly. 

“ Peas, with a bit of pork, ” said Virginie, authorita- 
tively. 

This was agreed upon with enthusiasm. 

The next day at three, Mamma Coupeau lighted the 
two furnaces belonging to the house, and a third one 


190 


L'ASSOM MO I It. 


borrowed from Madame Boche ; and at half-past three the 
soup was gently simmering in a large pot lent by the 
restaurant at the corner. They had decided to cook the 
veal and the pork the day previous, as those two dishes 
could be warmed lip so well, and would leave for Mon- 
day only the goose to roast and the vegetables. The back 
shop was ruddy with the glow from the three furnaces — 
sauces were bubbling with a strong smell of browned flour. 
Mamma Coupeau and Gervaise, each with large, white 
aprons, were washing celery, and running hither and 
thither with pepper and salt, or hurriedly turning the veal 
with flat wooden sticks made for the purpose. They had 
told Coupeau pleasantly that his room was better than 
his company; but they had plenty of people there that 
afternoon. The smell of the cooking found its way out 
into the street and up through the house, and the neigh- 
bors, impelled by curiosity, came down on all sorts of 
pretexts, merely to discover what was going on. 

About five Virginie made her appearance. She had 
seen Lantier twice. Indeed, it was impossible nowadays 
to enter the street and not see him. Madame Boche, too, 
had spoken to him on the corner below. Then Gervaise, 
who was on the point of going for a sou’s worth of fried 
onions to season her soup, shuddered from head to foot, 
and said she would not go out ever again. The Con- 
cierge and Virginie added to her terror by a succession of 
stories of men who lay in wait for women, with knives 
and pistols hidden in their coats. 

Such things were read every day in the papers! 


l’assommoir. 


191 


When such a scamp as Lantier found a woman happy 
and comfortable, he was always wretched until he had 
made her so, too. Virginie said she would go for the 
onions. “ Women,” she observed sententiously, “ should 
protect each other, as well as serve each other, in such 
matters.” When she returned, she reported that Lantier 
was no longer there. The* conversation around the stove 
that evening never once drifted from that subject. Mad- 
ame Boche said that she, under similar circumstances, 
should tell her husband; but Gervaise was horror-struck 
at this, and begged her never to breathe one single word 
about it. Besides, she fancied her husband had caught a 
glimpse of Lantier from something he had muttered, amid 
a volley of oaths, two or three nights before. She was 
filled with dread lest these two men should meet. She 
knew Coupeau so well, that she had long since discovered 
that he was still jealous of Lantier; and while the four 
women discussed the imminent danger of a terrible tra- 
gedy, the sauces and the meats hissed and simmered on 
the furnaces, and they ended by each taking a cup of soup 
to discover what improvement was desirable. 

Monday arrived. Now that Gervaise had invited four- 
teen to dine, she began to be afraid there would not be 
room, and finally decided to lay the table in the shop. 
She was uncertain how to place the table, which was the 
ironing table on trestles. In the midst of the hubbub 
and confusion a customer arrived, and made a scene 
because her linen had not come home on the Friday 
previous. She insisted on having every piece that 
moment — clean or dirty, ironed or rough-dry. 


l’assommoir. 


Then Gervaise, to excuse herself, told a lie with won- 
derful sang-froid . It was not her fault.. She was clean- 
ing her rooms. Her women would be at work again the 
next day, and she got rid of her customer, who went 
away, soothed by the promise that her wash should be sent 
to her early the following morning. 

But Gervaise lost her temper, which was not a common 
thing with her, and as soon as the woman’s back was turned, 
called her by an opprobrious name, and declared that if 
she did as people wished she could not take time to eat, 
and vowed she would not have an iron heated that day 
nor the next, in her establishment. No ! not if the Grand 
Turk himself should come and entreat her on his knees 
to do up a collar for him. She meant to enjoy herself a 
little occasionally ! 

The entire morning was consumed in making purchases. 
Three times did Gervaise go out and come in, laden with 
bundles. But when she went the fourth time for the wine 
she discovered that she had not money enough. She 
could have got the wine on credit, but she could not be 
without money in the house, for a thousand little unex- 
pected expenses arise at such times, and she and her 
mother-in-law racked their bi'ains to know what they 
should do to get the twenty francs they considered neces- 
sary. Madame Coupeau, who had once been house- 
keeper for an actress, was the first to speak of the Mont- 
de-Pi6t4. Gervaise laughed gayly. 

“ To be sure ! Why had she not thought of it before?” 

She folded her black silk dress and pinned it in a 
napkin, then she hid the bundle under her mother-in- 


l’as sommoie, 


193 


law’s apron and bade her keep it very flat, lest the neigh- 
bors who were so terribly inquisitive should find it out, 
and then she watched the old woman from the door, to 
see that no one followed her. 

But when Mamma Coupeau had gone a few steps 
Gervaise called her back into the shop, and, taking her 
wedding-ring from her finger, said : 

“ Take this, too, for we shall need all the money we can 
get to-day.” 

And when the old woman came back with twenty-five 
francs she clapped her hands with joy. She ordered six 
bottles of wine with seals to drink with the roast. The 
Lorilleux would be green with envy. For a fortnight 
this had been her one idea, to crush the Lorilleux, who 
were never known to ask a friend to their table; who, on 
the contrary, locked their doors when they had anything 
especially good to eat. Gervaise wanted to give her a 
lesson, and would have liked to offer the strangers who 
passed her door, a seat at her table. Money was a very 
good thing, and mighty pretty to look at, but it was good 
for nothing but to spend. 

Mamma Coupeau and Gervaise began to lay their table 
at three o’clock. They had hung curtains before the 
window, but as the day was warm, the door into the street 
was open. The two women did not put on a plate or salt- 
spoon without the avowed intention of worrying the 
Lorilleux. They had given them seats where the table 
could be seen to the best advantage, and they placed before 
them the real china plates. 


-vt 


l’assommoie. 


“ No, no, mamma,” cried Gervaise, “ not those napkins. 
I have two which are real damask.” 

“ Well ! well ! I declare ! ” murmured the old woman. 
“ What will they say to all this ? ” 

And they smiled as they stood at opposite sides of 
this long table with its glossy white cloth, and its places 
for fourteen carefully laid. They worshipped there as if 
it had been a chapel erected in the middle of the shop. 

“ How false they are ! ” said Gervaise. “ Do you remem- 
ber how she declared she had lost a piece of one of the 
chains when she was carrying them home? That was 
only to get out of giving you your five francs.” 

“ Which I have never had from them but just twice,” 
muttered the old woman. 

“ I will wager that next month they will invent 
another tale. That is one reason why they lock their 
doors when they have a rabbit. They think people might 
say, ‘ If you can eat ralbits you can give five francs to 
your mother ! ’ How mean they are! What do you think 
would have become of you if I had not asked you to come 
and live here? ” 

Her mother-in-law shook her head. She was rather 
severe in her judgment of the Lorilleux that day, inas- 
much as she was influenced by the gorgeous entertainment 
given by the Coupeaus. She liked the excitement, she 
liked to cook — she generally lived pretty well with Ger- 
vaise; but on those days which occur in all households, 
when the dinner was scanty or unsatisfactory, she called 
herself a most unhappy woman, left to the mercy of a 


l’aSS O M MO I E. 


195 


daughter-in-law. In the depths of her heart she still 
loved Madame Lorilleux ; she was her eldest child. 

“ You certainly would have weighed some pounds less 
with her,” continued Gervaise. “No coffee, no tobacco, 
no sweets. And do you imagine that they would have 
put two mattresses on your bed ?” 

“ No, indeed,” answered the old woman ; “ but I wish 
to see them when they first come in — just to see how they 
look !” 

At four o’clock the goose was roasting, and Augustine, 
seated on a little footstool, was given a long-handled spoon, 
and bidden to watch and baste it every few minutes. 
Gervaise was busy with the peas, and Mamma Coupeau, 
with her head a little confused, was waiting until it was 
time to heat the veal and the pork. At five the guests 
began to arrive. CISmence and Madame Putois, gorgeous 
to behold in their Sunday rig, were the first. 

Cldmence wore a blue dress and had some geraniums in 
her hand ; Madame was in black, with a bunch of helio- 
trope. Gervaise, whose hands were covered with flour, 
put them behind her back, came forward, and kissed them 
cordially. 

After them came Virginie in scarf and hat, though she 
had only to cross the street ; she wore a printed muslin, 
and was as imposing as any lady in the land. She 
brought a pot of red carnations, and put both her arms 
around her friend and kissed her. 

The offering brought by Boche was a pot of pansies, 
and his wife’s was mignonette; Madame Lerat’s a lemon 


196 


l’assommoir. 


verbena. The three furnaces filled the room with an over- 
powering heat, and the frying potatoes drowned their 
voices. Gervaise was very sweet and smiling, thanking 
every one for the flowers, at the same time making the 
dressing for the salad. The perfume of the flowers was 
perceived above all the smell of cooking. 

“ Can’t I help you ?” said Virginie. “ It is a shame to 
have you work so hard for three days on all these things, 
that we shall gobble up in no time.” 

“ No, indeed,” answered Gervaise, “lam nearly through.” 

The ladies covered the bed with their shawls and bon- 
nets, and then went into the shop that they might be out 
of the way, and talked through the open door with much 
noise and loud laughing. 

At this moment Goujet appeared, and stood timidly on 
the threshold with a tall white rose-bush in his arms 
whose flowers brushed against his yellow beard. Gervaise 
ran toward him with her cheeks reddened by her furnaces. 
She took the plant, crying, 

“I-Iow beautiful!” 

He dared not kiss her, and she was compelled to offer 
her cheek to him ; and both were embarrassed. He told 
her, in a confused way, that his mother was ill with 
sciatica and could not come. Gervaise was greatly dis- 
appointed, but she had no time to say much just then : she 
was beginning to be anxious about Coupeau — he ought to 
be in — then, too, where were the Lorillcux? She called 
Madame Lerat, who had arranged the reconciliation, and 
bade her go and see. 


l’assommoir. 


197 


Madame Lerat put on her hat and shawl with excessive 
care and departed. A solemn hush of expectation pervaded 
the room. 

Madame Lerat presently reappeared. She had come 
round by the street to give a more ceremonious aspect to 
the affair. She held the door open, while Madame Lorilleux, 
in a silk dress, stood on the threshold. All the guests 
rose, and Gervaise went forward to meet her sister and 
kissed her, as had been agreed upon. 

“Come in! come in!” she said. “We are friends 
again.” 

“And I hope for always,” answered her sister-in-law, 
severely. 

After she was ushered in, the same programme had to 
be followed out with her husband. Neither of the two 
brought any flowers. They had refused to do so, saying 
that it would look as if they were bowing down to Wooden 
Leg. Gervaise summoned Augustine, and bade her bring 
some wine, and then filled glasses for all the party, and 
each drank the health of the family. 

“ It is a good thing before soup,” muttered Boche. 

Mamma Coupeau drew Gervaise into the next room. 

« Did you see her?” she said, eagerly. “I was watch- 
ing her, and when she saw the table, her face was as long 
as my arm, and now she is gnawihg her lips, she is so 
mad!” 

It was true the Lorilleux could not stand that table, 
with its white linen, its shining glass, and square piece 
of bread at each place. It was like a restaurant on the 


198 


l’assommoir. 


Boulevard, and Madame Lorilleux felt of the cloth 
stealthily to ascertain if it were new. 

“ We are all ready,” cried Gervaise, reappearing, and 
pulling down her sleeves over her white arms. 

“Where can Coupeau be?” she continued. 

“He is always late! he always forgets !” muttered hi.. 
sister. Gervaise was in despair. Everything would be 
spoiled. She proposed that some one should go out and 
look for him. Goujet offered to go, and she said she would 
accompany him. Virginie followed, all three bareheaded. 
Every one looked at them, so gay and fresh on a week day. 
Virginie, in her pink muslin, and Gervaise in a white 
cambric with blue spots, and a gray silk handkerchief 
knotted round her throat. They went to one wine-shop 
after another, but no Coupeau. Suddenly, as they went 
toward the Boulevard, his wife uttered an exclamation. 

“What is the matter?” asked Goujet. 

The clear-starcher was very pale, and so much agitated 
that she could hardly stand. Virginie knew at once, and 
leaning over her, looked in at the restaurant and saw 
Lantier quietly dining. 

“I turned my foot,” said Gervaise, when she could 
speak. Finally, at the Assommoir they found Coupeau 
and Poisson. They were standing in the centre of an 
excited crowd. Coupeau, in a gray blouse, was quarrelling 
with some one, and Poisson, who was not on duty that 
day, was listening quietly — his red moustache and imperial 
giving him, however, quite a formidable aspect. 

Goujet left the women outside, and going in placed his 


l’assommoir. 


199 


hand on Coupeau’s shoulder, who, when he saw his wife 
and Virginie, fell into a great rage. 

“ No, h« would not move ! He would not stand being 
followed about by women in this way! They might go 
home and eat their rubbishy dinner themselves ! He did 
not want any of it ! ” 

To appease him, Goujet was compelled to drink with 
him, and finally he persuaded him to go with him. But 
when he was outside, he said to Gervaise : 

“I am not going home; you need not think it!” 

She did not reply. She was trembling from head to 
foot. She had been speaking of Lantier to Virginie, and 
begged the others to go on in front, while the two women 
walked on either side of Coupeau to prevent him from 
seeing Lantier as they passed the open window where he 
sat eating his dinner. 

But Coupeau knew that Lantier was there, for he said : 

“There’s a fellow I know, and you know him, too!” 

He then went on to accuse her, with many a coarse word, 
of coming out to look — not for him — but for her old lover, 
and then all at once he poured out a torrent of abuse upon 
Lantier, who, however, never looked up or appeared to 
hear it. 

Virginie at last coaxed Coupeau on, whose rage disap- 
peared when they turned the corner of the street. They 
returned to the shop, however, in a very different mood 
from the one in which they had left it, and found the 
guests, with very long faces, awaiting them. 

Coupeau shook hands with the ladies in succession, with 


200 


l’assommoir. 


difficulty keeping his feet as lie did so, and Gervaise, in a 
choked voice, begged them to take their seats. But sud- 
denly she perceived that Madame Goujet not having come, 
there was an empty seat next Madame Lorilleux. 

“ We are thirteen,” she said, much disturbed, as she 
fancied this to be an additional proof of the misfortune 
which, for some time, she had felt to be hanging over 
them. 

The ladies, who were seated, started up. Madame Putois 
offered to leave, because, she said, no one should fly in the 
face of Destiny ; besides, she was not hungry. As to 
Boche, he laughed, and said it was all nonsense. 

“ Wait!” cried Gervaise, “ I will arrange it.” 

And rushing out on the sidewalk, she called to Father 
Bru, who was crossing the street, and the old man followed 
her into the room. 

“Sit there,” said the clear-starcher. “You are willing 
to dine with us, are you not?” 

He nodded acquiescence. 

“ He will do as well as another,” she continued, in a 
low voice. “ He rarely, if ever, had as much as he wanted 
to eat, and it will be a pleasure to us to see him enjoy his 
dinner.” 

Goujet’s eyes were damp, so much was he touched by 
the kind way in which Gervaise spoke, and the others felt 
that it would bring them good luck. Madame Lorilleux 
was the only one who seemed displeased. She drew her 
skirts away and looked down with disgusted mien upon 
the patched blouse at her side. 


l’assommoir. 


201 


Gervaise served the soup, and the guests were just lift- 
ing their spoons to their mouths, when Virginie noticed 
that Coupeau had disappeared. lie had probably returned 
to the more congenial society at the Assommoir, and some 
one said he might stay in the street — certainly no one would 
go after him ; but just as they had swallowed the soup 
Coupeau appeared bearing two pots, one under each arm — 
a balsam and a wall-flower. All the guests clapped their 
hands. He placed them on either side of Gervaise, and, 
kissing her, he said : 

“ I forgot you, my dear ; but all the same I loved you 
very much.” 

“Monsieur Coupeau is very amiable to-night: he has 
taken just enough to make him good-natured,” whispered 
one of the guests. 

This little act on the part of the hast brought back the 
smiles to the faces around the table. The wine began to 
circulate, and the voices of the children were heard in the 
next room. £tienne, Nana, Pauline, and little Victor 
Fauconnier were installed at a small table, and were told 
to be very good. 

When the blanquette du Veau was served, the guests 
were moved to enthusiasm. It was now half-past seven. 
The door of the shop was shut to keep out inquisitive eyes, 
and curtains hung before the windows. The Veal was a 
great success ; the sauce was delicious, and the mushrooms 
extraordinarily good. Then came the spare-rib of pork. 
Of course all these good things demanded a large amount 
of wine. 

13 


202 


l’assommoib. 


In the next room, at the children’s table, Nana was 
playing the mistress of the household. She was seated at 
the head of the table, and for a while was quite dignified, 
but her natural gluttony made her forget her good man- 
ners when she saw Augustine stealing the peas from her 
plate, and she slapped the girl vehemently. 

“Take care, Mademoiselle,” said Augustine, sulkily, 
“ or I will tell your mother that I heard you ask Victor 
to kiss you.” 

Now was the time for the goose. Two lamps were placed 
on the table, one at each end, and the disorder was very 
apparent : the cloth was stained and spotted. Gervaise left 
the table, to reappear presently bearing the goose in tri- 
umph. Lorilleux and his wife exchanged a look of dismay. 

“ Who will cut it?” said the clear-starcher. “No, not 
I : it is too big for me to manage ! ” 

Coupeau said he could do it. After all it was a simple 
thing enough — he should just tear it to pieces. 

There was a cry of dismay. 

Madame Lerat had an inspiration. 

“ Monsieur Poisson is the man,” she said ; “ of course he 
understands the use of arms,” and she handed the sergeant 
the carving-knife. Poisson made a stiff inclination of his 
whole body and drew the dish toward him, and went to 
work in a slow, methodical fashion. As he thrust his 
knife into the breast, Lorilleux was seized with momen- 
tary patriotism, and he exclaimed: 

“If it were only a Cossack ! ” 

At last the goose was carved and distributed, and the 


l’aSS 0 MMOIE. 


203 


whole party eat as if they were just beginning their dinner. 
Presently there was a grand outcry about the heat, and 
Coupeau opened the door into the street. Gervaise 
devoured large slices of the breast, hardly speaking, but a 
little ashamed of her own gluttony in the presence of Gou- 
jet. She never forgot old Bru, however, and gave him 
the choicest morsels, which he swallowed unconsciously, 
his palate having long since lost the power of distinguish- 
ing flavors. Mamma Coupeau picked a bone with her two 
remaining teeth. 

And the wine ! Good heavens ! how much they drank! 
A pile of empty bottles stood in the corner. When 
Madame Putois asked for water, Coupeau himself 
removed the carafes from the table. . No one should drink 
water, he declared, in his house — did she want to swallow 
frogs and live things? and he filled up aJl the glasses. 
Hypocrites might talk as much as they pleased — the juice 
of the grape was a mighty good thing and a famous 
invention ! 

The guests all laughed and approved ; working people 
must have their wine, they said, and Father Noah had 
planted the vine for them especially. Wine gave courage 
and strength for work ; and, if it chauced that a man 
sometimes took a drop too much, in the end it did him no 
harm, and life looked brighter to him for a time. Goujet 
himself, who was usually so prudent and abstemious, was 
becoming a little excited. Boche was growing red and 
the Lorilleux pair very pale; while Poisson assumed a 
solemn and severe aspect. The men were all more or less* 


204 


l’assommoie. 


tipsy; and the ladies — well, the less we say of the ladieu 
the better. 

Suddenly Gervaise remembered the six bottles of sealed 
wine she had omitted to serve with the goose as she had 
intended. She produced them amid much applause. The 
glasses were filled anew, and Poisson rose and proposed 
the health of their hostess. 

“And fifty more birthdays ! ” cried Virginie. 

“ No, no,” answered Gervaise, with a smile that had a 
touch of sadness in it. “ I do not care to live to be very 
old. There comes a time when one is glad to go ! ” 

A little crowd had collected outside, and smiled at the 
scene, and the smell of the goose pervaded the whole street. 
The clerks in the grocery opposite licked their lips, and 
said it was good, and curiously estimated the amount of 
wine that had been consumed. 

None of the guests were annoyed by being the subjects 
of observation, although they were fully aware of it, and 
in fact rather enjoyed it. Coupeau catching sight of a 
familiar face, held up a bottle, which, being accepted with 
a nod, he sent it out with a glass. This established a sort 
of fraternity with the street. 

In the next room the children were unmanageable. 
They had taken possession of a saucepan and were drum- 
ming on it with spoons. Mamma Coupeau and Father 
Bru were talking earnestly. The old man was speaking 
of his two sons who had died in the Crimea. “Ah ! had 
they but lived he would have had bread to eat in his 
old age ! ” 


i/a ssommoie. 


205 


Madame Coupeau, whose tongue was a little thick, said : 

“Yes; but one has a good deal of unhappiness with 
children. Many an hour have I wept on account of 
mine.” 

Father Bru hardly heard what she said, but talked on 
half to himself. 

“ I can’t get any work to do. I am too old. When 1 
ask for any, people laugh, and ask if it was I who blacked 
Henri Quatre’s boots. Last year I earned thirty sous by 
painting a bridge. I had to lie on my back all the 
time close to the water, and since then I have coughed 
incessantly.” He looked down at his poor stiff hands, 
and added, “I know I am good for nothing. I wish I 
was by the side of my boys. It is a great pity that one 
can’t kill one’s self when one begins to grow old.” 

“Really,” said Lorilleux, “I cannot see why the 
government does not do something for people in your 
condition. Men who are disabled — ” 

“But workmen are not soldiers,” interrupted Poisson, 
who considered it his duty to espouse the cause of the 
government. “ It is foolish to expect them to do im- 
possibilities.” 

The dessert was served. In the centre was a pyramid 
of sponge cake in the form of a temple with melon-like 
sides, and on the top was an artificial rose, with a butterfly 
of silver paper hovering over it, held by a gilt wire. Two 
drops of gum in the heart of the rose stood for dew. On 
the left was a deep plate with a bit of cheese, and on the 
other side of the pyramid was a dish of strawberries, 
which had been sugared and carefully crushed. 


206 


l’assommoir. 


In the salad dish there were a few leaves of lettuce left. 

“Madame Boche,” said Gervaise, courteously, “pray 
eat these. I know how fond you are of salad.” 

The Concierge shook her head. “There were limits to 
even her capacities,” and she looked at the lettuce with 
regret. Clemence told how she had once eaten three 
quarts of water-cresses at her breakfast. Madame Putois 
declared that she enjoyed lettuce with a pinch of salt and 
no dressing, and as they talked the ladies emptied the 
salad-bowl. 

None of the guests were dismayed at the dessert, although 
they had eaten so enormously. They had the night 
before them, too ; there was no need of haste. The men 
lighted their pipes and drank more wine while they 
watched Gervaise cut the cake. Poisson, who prided 
himself on his knowledge of the habits of good society, 
rose and took the rose from the top, and presented it to the 
hostess amid the loud applause of the whole party. She 
fastened it just over her heart, and the butterfly fluttered 
at every movement. A song was proposed — comic songs 
were a specialty with Boche — and the whole party joined 
in the chorus. The men kept time with their heels, and 
the women with their knives on their glasses. The 
windows of the shop jarred with the noise. Virginie had 
disappeared twice, and the third time, when she came back, 
she said to Gervaise : 

“ My dear, he is still at the restaurant, and pretends to 
be reading his paper. I fear he is meditating some 
mischief.” 


l’assommoir. 


207 


She spoke of Lantier. She had been out to see if he 
were anywhere in the vicinity. Gervaise became very 
grave. 

1 Is he tipsy ? ” she asked. 

“ No, indeed ; and that is what troubled me. Why on 
earth should he stay there so long if he is not drinking? 
My heart is in my mouth, I am so afraid something will 
happen.” 

The clear-starcher begged her to say no more. Madame 
Putois started up and began a fierce piratical song — 
standing stiff and erect in her black dress, her pale face 
surrounded by her black lace cap, and gesticulating 
violently. Poisson nodded approval. He had been to 
sea, and he knew all about it. 

Gervaise, assisted by her mother-in-law, now poured 
out the coffee. Her guests insisted on a song from her, 
declaring that it was her turn. She refused. Her face 
was disturbed and pale, so much so that she was asked if 
the goose disagreed with her. 

Finally she began to sing a plaintive melody, all about 
dreams and rest. Her eyelids half closed as she ended, 
and she peered out into the darkness. Then followed a 
barcarolle from Madame Boche, and a romance from 
Lorilleux, in which figured, perfumes of Araby — ivory 
throats — ebony hair — kisses — moonlight and guitars! 
Clemence followed with a song, which recalled the coun- 
try with its descriptions of birds and flowers. Virginie 
brought down the house with her imitation of a vivan- 
diSre, standing with her hand on her hip, and a wine 


208 


l’assommoir. 


glass in her hand, which she emptied down her throat as 
she finished. 

But the grand success of the evening was Goujet, who 
sang in his rich bass the Adieux d’ Abd-el-Kader. The 
words issued from his yellow beard like the call of a 
trumpet, and thrilled every one around the table. 

Virginie whispered to Gervaise : 

u I have just seen Lantier pass the door. Good heavens ! 
There he is again, standing still and looking in.” 

Gervaise caught her breath and timidly turned around. 
The crowd had increased, attracted by the songs. There 
were soldiers and shop-keepers, and three little girls, five 
or six years old, holding each other by the hand, grave 
and silent, struck with wonder and admiration. 

Lantier was directly in front of the door. Gervaise 
met his eyes, and felt the very marrow of her bones chilled, 
she could not move hand or foot. 

Coupeau called for more wine, and CISmence helped 
herself to more strawberries. The singing ceased, and the 
conversation turned upon a woman, who had hung herself 
the day before in the next street. 

It was now Madame Lerat’s turn to amuse the company, 
but she needed to make certain preparations. 

She dipped the corner of her napkin into a glass of 
water and applied it to her temples because -she was too 
warm. Then she asked for a teaspoonful of brandy and 
wiped her lips. 

“ I will sing ‘L’Enfant du bon Dieu/” shu said, pom- 
pously. 


l’assommoir. 209 

She stood up, with her square shoulders like those of a 
man, and began : 

“ L’Enfant perdu que sa radre abandonne, 

Trouve toujours un asile au Saint lieu, 

Dieu qui le voit, le defend de son trdne, 

L’Enfant perdu, c’est L’Enfant du bon Dieu.” 

She raised her eyes to heaven, and placed one hand on 
her heart; her voice was not without a certain sympathetic 
quality, and Gervaise, already quivering with emotion 
caused by the knowledge of Lantier’s presence, could no 
longer restrain her tears. It seemed to her that she was 
the deserted child whom le bon Dieu had taken under His 
care. Cl6mence, who was quite tipsy, burst into loud 
sobs. The ladies took out their handkerchiefs and pressed 
them to their eyes, rather proud of their tenderness of 
hearts. 

The men felt it their duty to respect the feeling shown 
by the women, and were, in fact, somewhat touched them- 
selves. The wine had softened their hearts apparently. 

Gervaise and Yirginie watched the shadows outside. 
Madame Boche in her turn now caught a glimpse of 
Lantier, and uttered an exclamation as she wiped away 
her fast falling tears. The three women exchanged ter- 
rified, anxious glances. 

“Good heavens!” muttered Yirginie. “Suppose Cou- 
peau should turn around. There would be a murder, I 
am convinced.” And the earnestness of their fixed eyes 
became so apparent that finally he said : 


210 


l’assommoie. 


“ What are you staring at?” 

And leaning forward he too saw Lantier. 

“This is too much,” he muttered, “the dirty ruffian! 
It is too much, and I won’t have it ! ” 

As he started to his feet with an oath, Gervaise put her 
hand on his arm imploringly. 

“Put down that knife,” she said, “and do not go out, 
I entreat of you.” 

Virginie took away the knife, that Coupeau had snatched 
from the table, but she could not prevent him from going 
into the street. The other guests saw nothing, so entirely 
absorbed were they in the touching words which Madame 
Lerat was still singing. 

Gervaise sat with her hands clasped convulsively, 
breathless with fear, expecting to hear a cry of rage from 
the street and see one of the two men fall to the ground. 
Virginie and Madame Boche had something of the same 
feeling. Coupeau had been so overcome by the fresh air 
that when he rushed forward to take Lantier by the collar 
he missed his footing and found himself seated quietly in 
the gutter. 

Lantier moved aside a little, without taking his hands 
from his pocket. 

Coupeau staggered to his feet again, and a violent quar- 
rel commenced. Gervaise pressed her hands over her 
eyes; suddenly all was quiet, and she opened her eyes 
again and looked out. 

To her intense astonishment she saw Lantier and her 
husband talking in a quiet, friendly manner. 


l’assommoie. 


211 


Gervaise exchanged a look with Madame Boche and 
Virginie. What did this mean? 

As the women watched them, the two men began to 
walk up and down in front of the shop. They were 
talking earnestly. Coupeau seemed to be urging some- 
thing, and Lantier refusing. Finally Coupeau took Lan- 
tier’s arm and almost dragged him toward the shop. 

“I tell you, you must!” he cried. “You shall drink a 
glass of wine with us. Men will be men all the world 
over. My wife and I know that perfectly well.” 

Madame Lerat had finished her song and seated herself 
with the air of being utterly exhausted. She asked for a 
glass of wine. When she sang that song, she said, she 
was always torn to pieces, and it left her nerves in a terri- 
ble state. 

Lantier had been placed at the table by Coupeau, and 
was eating a piece of cake, leisurely dipping it into his glass 
of wine. With the exception of Madame Boche and 
Virginie, no one knew him. 

The Lorilleux looked at him with some suspicion, 
which, however, was very far from the mark. An awk- 
ward silence followed, broken by Coupeau, who said 
simply: 

“He is a friend of ours!” 

And turning to his wife, he added 

“Can’t you move round a little? Perhaps there is a 
cup of hot coffee!” 

Gervaise looked from one to the other. She was liter- 
ally dazed. When her husband first appeared with her 


212 


l’assommoir. 


former lover, she had clasped her hands over her forehead, 
with that instinctive gesture with which in a great storm 
one waits for the approach of the thunder-clap. 

It did not seem possible that the Avails would not falL 
and crush them all. Then, seeing the two men calmly- 
seated together, it all at once seemed perfectly natural to 
her. She was tired of thinking about it, and preferred to 
accept it. Why after all should she worry? No one else 
did. Every one seemed to be satisfied ; why should not 
she be also? 

The children had fallen asleep in the back room, Pau- 
line with her head on fltienne’s shoulder. Gervaise 
started as her eyes fell on her boy. She was shocked at 
the thought of his father sitting there eating cake without 
showing the least desire to see his child. She longed to 
awaken him and show him to Lantier. And then again 
she had a feeling of passing wonder at the manner in 
which things settled themselves in this world. 

She would not disturb the serenity of matters now, so 
she brought in the coffee-pot and poured out a cup for 
Lantier, who received it without even looking up at her, 
as he murmured his thanks. 

“Now it is my turn to sing!” shouted Coupeau. 

His song was one familiar to them all, and even to the 
street, for the little crowd at the door joined in the chorus. 
The guests within were all more or less tipsy, and there 
was so much noise that the policemen ran to quell a riot; 
but when they saw Poisson they bowed respectfully and 
passed on. 


l’assommoie. 


213 


No one of the party ever knew how or at what hour the 
festivities terminated. It must have been very late, for 
there was not a human being in the street when they 
departed. They vaguely remembered having joined hands 
and danced around the table. Gervaise* remembered that 
Lantier was the last to leave — that he passed her as she 
stood in the doorway. She felt a breath on her cheek, but 
whether it was his or the night air she could not tell. 

Madame Lerat had refused to return to Batignolles so 
late, and a mattress was laid on the floor in the shop near 
the table. She slept there amid the debris of the feast, and 
a neighbor’s cat profited by an open window to establish 
herself by her side, where she crunched the bones of the 
goose all night between her fine, sharp teeth. 


214 


l’assommoie. 


CHAPTER VIII. 


AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE. 


HE following Saturday Coupeau, who had not been 



-L home to dinner, came in with Lantier about ten 
o’clock. They had been eating pigs’ feet at a restaurant 
at Montmartre. 

“ Don’t scold, wife,” said Coupeau, “ we have not been 
drinking, you see; we can walk perfectly straight;” and 
he went on to say, how they had met each other quite by 
accident in the street, and how Lantier had refused to drink 
with him, saying, that when a man had married a nice 
little woman, he had no business to throw away his money 
in that way. Gervaise listened with a faint smile ; she 
had no idea of scolding. Oh, no ! it was not worth the 
trouble, but she was much agitated at seeing the two men 
together so soon again, and with trembling hands she 
knotted up her loosened hair. 

Her work-women had been gone some time. Nana and 
Mamma Coupeau were in bed, and Gervaise, who w r as just 
closing her shutters when her husband appeared, brought 
out some glasses and the remains of a bottle of brandy. 
Lantier did not sit down, and avoided addressing her 
directly. 

When she served him, however, he exclaimed : 

“A drop, Madame; a mere drop!” 


I/ASSOM MOIE. 


215 


Coupeau looked at them for a moment, and then 
expressed his mind fully. They were no fools, he said, 
nor .were they children. The Past was the Past. If people 
kept up their enmities for nine or ten years, no one would 
have a soul to speak to soon. As for himself, he was 
made differently. He knew they were honest people, and 
he was sure he could trust them. 

“Of course,” murmured Gervaise, hardly knowing what 
she said, “ of course.” 

“I regard her as a sister,” said Lantier, “only as a 
sister.” 

“ Give us your hand on that,” cried Coupeau, “ and let 
us be good friends in the Future. After all a good heart 
is better than gold, and I estimate Friendship as above 
all price.” 

And he gave himself a little tap on his breast, and 
looked about for applause, as if he had uttered rather a 
noble sentiment. 

Then the three silently drank their brandy. Gervaise 
looked at Lantier, and saw him for the first time, for on 
the night of the fete she had seen him, as it were, through a 
glass, darkly. 

He had grown very stout, and his arms and legs very 
heavy. But his face was still handsome, although some- 
what bloated by liquor and good living. He was dressed 
with care, and did not look any older than his years. 
He was thirty-five. He wore gray pantaloons and a dark 
blue frock-coat like any gentleman, and had a watch and 
a chain on which hung a ring — a souvenir, apparently. 


216 


l’assommoib. 


“ I must go,” he said, presently. 

He was at the door, when Coupeau recalled him to say 
that he must never pass without coming in to say, “ How 
do you do ? ” 

Meanwhile, Gervaise, who had disappeared, returned, 
pushing Ltienne before her. The boy was half asleep, but 
smiled as he rubbed his eyes. When he saw Lantier he 
started, and looked uneasily from him to Coupeau. 

“ Do you know this gentleman ? ” said his mother. 

The child looked away, and did not answer, but when 
his mother repeated the question he made a little sign that 
he remembered him. Lantier, grave and silent, stood 
still. When fitienne went toward him, he stooped and 
kissed the child, who did not look at him but burst into 
tears, and when he was violently reproached by Coupeau, 
he rushed away. 

“It is excitement,” said his mother, who was herself 
very pale. 

“He is usually very good and very obedient,” said 
Coupeau. “I have brought him up well, as you will 
find out. He will soon get used to you. He must learn 
something of life, you see, and will understand, one of 
these days, that people must forget and forgive ; and I 
would cut off my head sooner than prevent a father from 
seeing his child ! ” 

He then proposed to finish the bottle of brandy. They 
all three drank together again. Lantier was quite undis- 
turbed, and before he left, he insisted on aiding Coupeau 
to shut up the shop. Then, as he dusted his hands with 
his handkerchief, he wished them a careless good-night. 


l'assommoie. 


217 


“ Sleep well. I am going to try and catch the omnibus. 
I will see you soon again.” 

Lantier kept his word, and was seen from that time 
very often in the shop. He came only when Coupeau 
was home, and asked for him before he crossed the thresh- 
old. Then seated near the window, always wearing a 
frock coat, fresh linen, and carefully shaved, he kept up a 
conversation like a man who had seen something of the 
world. By degrees Coupeau learned something of his 
life. For the last eight years he had been at the head of 
a hat manufactory, and when he was asked why he had 
given it up, he said, vaguely, that he was not satisfied 
with his partner ; he was a rascal, and so on. 

But his former position still imparted to him a certain 
air of importance. He said, also, that he was on the point 
of concluding an important matter — that certain business 
houses were in process of establishing themselves, the 
management of which would be virtually in his hands. 
In the meantime he had absolutely not one thing to do, 
but to walk about with his hands in his pocket. 

Any day he pleased, however, he could start again. He 
had only to decide on some house. Coupeau did not al- 
together believe this tale, and insisted that he must be 
doing something which he did not choose to tell ; other- 
wise, how did he live? 

The truth was that Lantier, excessively talkative in 
regard to other people’s affairs, was very reticent about 
his own. He lied quite as often as he spoke the truth, 
and would never tell where he resided. He said he was 
14 


218 


l’assommoir. 


never at home, so it was of no use for any one to come 
and see him. 

“I am very careful,” he said, “in making any engage- 
ment. I do not choose to hind myself to a man and find, 
when it is too late, that he intends to make a slave of me. 
I went one Monday to Champion at Monrouge. That 
evening Champion began a political discussion. He and 
I dilfered entirely, and on Tuesday I threw up the situa- 
tion. You can’t blame me, I am sure, for not being will- 
ing to sell my soul and my convictions for seven francs 
per day ! ” 

It was now November. Lantier occasionally brought a 
bunch of violets to Gervaise. By degrees his visits be- 
came more frequent. He seemed determined to fascinate 
the whole house, even the Quartier, and he began by in- 
gratiating himself with ClSmence and Madame Putois, 
showing them both the greatest possible attention. 

These two women adored him at the end of a month. 
Madame Boche, whom he flattered by calling on her in 
her loge, had all sorts of pleasant things to say about him. 

As to the Lorilleux they were furious when they found 
out who he was, and declared that it was a sin and a 
disgrace for Gervaise to bring him into her house. But 
one fine day Lantier bearded them in their den, and 
ordered a chain made for a lady of his acquaintance, and 
made himself so agreeable that they begged him to sit 
down, and kept him an hour. After this visit they 
expressed their astonishment that a man so distinguished 
could ever have seen anything in Wooden Legs to admire. 


l’assommoie. 


219 


By degrees therefore people had become accustomed to 
seeing him, and no longer expressed their horror or 
amazement. Goujet was the only one who was disturbed. 
If Lantier came in while he was there he at once departed, 
and avoided all intercourse with him. 

Gervaise was very unhappy. She was conscious of a 
returning inclination for Lantier, and she was afraid of 
herself and of him. She thought of him constantly; he 
had taken entire possession of her imagination. But she 
grew calmer as days passed on, finding that he never 
tried to see her alone, and that he rarely looked at her, 
and never laid the tip of his finger on her. 

Virginie, who seemed to read her through and through, 
asked her what she feared. Was there ever a man more 
respectful ? 

But out of mischief or worse, the woman contrived to 
get the two into a corner one day, and then led the con- 
versation into a most dangerous direction. Lantier, in 
reply to some question, said in measured tones that his 
heart was dead, that he lived now only for his son. He 
never thought of Claude who was away. He embraced 
fitienne every night, but soon forgot he was in the room, 
and amused himself with Cl6mence. 

Then Gervaise began to realize that the Past was dead. 
Lantier had brought back to her the memory of Plassans 
and the Hotel Boncoeur. But this faded away again, 
and seeing him constantly, the Past was absorbed in the 
Present. She shook off these memories almost with 
disgust. Yes, it was all over, and should he ever dare to 
allude to former years shew'ould complain to her husband. 


220 


l’assommoie. 


She began again to think of Goujet, almost uncon- 
sciously. 

One morning Cl6mence said that the night before she 
had seen Lantier walking with a woman who had his 
arm. Yes, he was coming up La Rue Notre-Dame de 
Lorette; the woman was a blonde, and no better than she 
should be. Cl6mence added that she had followed them 
until the woman reached a house where she went in. 
Lantier waited in the street, until there was a window 
opened, which was evidently a signal, for he went into the 
house at once. 

Gervaise was ironing a white dress; she smiled slightly, 
and said that she believed a Proven £al was always crazy 
after women, and at night when Lantier appeared, she was 
quite amused at CRmence, who at once attacked him. He 
seemed to be on the whole rather pleased that he had 
been seen. The person was an old friend, he said, one 
whom he had not seen for some time — a very stylish 
woman, in fact ; and he told Cl6mence to smell of his 
handkerchief on which his friend had put some of the 
perfume she used. Just then Btienne came in, and his 
father became very grave and said that he was in jest — 
that his heart was dead. 

Gervaise nodded approval of this sentiment, but she did 
not speak. 

When spring came Lantier began to talk of moving 
into that neighborhood. He wanted a furnished, cleanly 
room. Madame Boche and Gervaise tried to find one for 
him. But they did not meet with any success. He was 


L’ASSOMMOIE. 


221 


altogether too fastidious in his requirements. Every 
evening at the Coupeaus’ he wished he could find people 
like themselves who would take a lodger. 

“ You are very comfortable here, I am sure,” he would 
-say regularly. 

Finally, one night when he had uttered this phrase as 
usual, Coupeau cried out : 

“ If you like this place and us so much, why don’t you 
stay here? We can make room for you.” 

And he explained that the linen-room could be so 
arranged that it would be very comfortable, and fitienne 
could sleep on a mattress in the corner. 

“ No, no,” said Lantier, “ it would trouble you too much. 
I know that you have the most generous heart in the 
world, but I cannot impose upon you. Your room would 
be a passage-way to mine, and that would not be agree- 
able to any of us.” 

“ Nonsense,” said Coupeau. “ Have we no invention ? 
There are two windows : can’t one be cut down to the floor 
and used as a door? In that case you would enter from 
the court and not through the shop. You would be by 
yourself, and we by ourselves.” 

There was a long silence, broken finally by Lantier. 

“If this could be done,” he said, “I should like it, but 
I am afraid you would find yourselves too crowded.” 

He did not look at Gervaise as he spoke, but it was 
clear that he was only waiting for a word from her. She 
did not like the plan at all ; not that the thought of Lan- 
tier living under their roof disturbed her, but she had no 


222 


l’assommoir. 


idea where she could put the linen as it came in to be 
washed and again when it was rough-dry. 

But Coupeau was enchanted with the plan. “ The 
rent,” he said, “ had always been heavy to carry, and now 
they should gain twenty francs per month.” It was not 
dear for him, and it would help them decidedly. He 
told his wife that she could have two great boxes made iu 
which all the linen of the Quartier could be piled. 

Gervaise still hesitated, questioning Mamma Coupeau 
with her eyes. Lantier had long since propitiated the old 
lady by bringing her gum-drops for her cough. 

“ If we could arrange it, I am sure — ” said Gervaise, 
hesitatingly. 

“ You are too kind,” remonstrated Lantier. “ I really 
feel that it would be an intrusion.” 

Coupeau flamed out, “ Why did she not speak up, he 
should like to know, instead of stammering and behaving 
like a fool ?” 

“fitienne! fitienne!” he shouted. 

The boy was asleep with his head on the table. He 
started up. 

“ Listen to me. Say to this gentleman, ‘ I wish it.’ Say 
just those words and nothing more.” 

“I wish it!” stammered fitienne, half asleep. 

Everybody laughed. But Lantier almost instantly 
resumed his solemn air. He pressed Coupeau’s hand 
'■ordially. 

“ I accept your proposition,” he said. “ It is a most 
friendly one, and I thank you in my name and in that of 
my child.” 


i/assommoir. 


223 


The next morning Marescot, the owner of the house, 
happening to call, Gervaise spoke to him of the matter. 
At first he absolutely refused, and was as disturbed and 
angry as if she had asked him to build on a wing for her 
especial accommodation. Then, after a minute examina- 
tion of the premises, he ended by giving his consent, only 
on condition, however, that he should not be required to 
pay any portion of the expense, and the Coupeaus signed 
a paper, agreeing to put everything into its original condi- 
tion at the expiration of their lease. 

That same evening Coupeau brought in a mason, a 
painter, and a carpenter, all friends and boon companions 
of his, who would do this little job at night after their 
day’s work was over. 

The cutting of the door, the painting, and the cleaning, 
would come to about one hundred francs, and Coupeau 
agreed to pay them as fast as his tenant paid him. 

The next question was, how to furnish the room ? Ger- 
vaise left Mamma Coupeau’s wardrobe in it. She added 
a table and two chairs from her own room. She was 
compelled to buy a bed and dressing-table, and divers 
other things, which amounted to one hundred and thirty 
francs. This she must pay for, ten francs each month. So 
that for nearly a year they could derive no benefit from 
their new lodger. 

It was early in June that Lantier took possession of his 
new quarters. Coupeau had offered the night before to 
help him with his trunk in order to avoid the thirty sous 
for a fiacre. But the other seemed embarrassed, and said 


224 


l’assommoie. 


his trunk was heavy, and it seemed as if he preferred to 
keep it a secret even now where he resided. 

He came about three o’clock. Coupeau was not there, 
and Gervaise, standing at her shop-door, turned white, as 
she recognized the trunk on the fiacre. It was their old 
one with which they had travelled from Plassans. Now 
it was banged and battered, and strapped with cords. 

She saw it brought in as she had often seen it in her 
dreams, and she vaguely wondered if it were the same 
fiacre which had taken him and Adele away. Boche 
welcomed Lantier cordially. Gervaise stood by in silent 
bewilderment, watching them place the trunk in her 
lodger’s room. Then, hardly knowing what she said, she 
murmured : 

“ We must take a glass of wine together — ” 

Lantier, who was busy untying the cords on his trunk, 
did not look up, and she added : 

“You will join us, Monsieur Boche!” 

And she went for some wine and glasses. At that 
moment she caught sight of Poisson passing the door. She 
gave him a nod and a wink which he perfectly under- 
stood : it meant, when he was on duty, that he was offered 
a glass of wine ; he went round by the court-yard in order 
not to be seen. Lantier never saw him without some 
joke in regard to his political convictions, which, however, 
had not prevented the men from becoming excellent 
friends. 

To one of these jests Boche now replied : 

“ Did you know,” he said, “ that when the Emperor was 


l’aSSO JIMO I K. 


225 


in London he was a policeman, and his special duty was 
to carry all the intoxicated women to the station-house ? ” 

Gervaise had filled three glasses on the table. She did 
not care for any wine ; she was sick at heart, as she stood 
looking at Lantier kneeling on the floor by the- side of the 
trunk. She was wild to know what it contained. She 
remembered that in one corner was a pile of stockings, a 
shirt or two, and an old hat. Were those things still 
there? Was she to be confronted with those tattered 
relics of the Past? 

Lantier did not lift the lid however; he rose, and going 
to the table held his glass high in his hands. 

“ To your health, Madame ! ” he said. 

And Poisson and Boche drank with him. 

Gervaise filled their glasses again. The three men 
wiped their lips with the backs of their hands. 

Then Lantier opened his trunk. It was filled with a 
hodge-podge of papers, books, old clothes, and bundle3 
of linen. He pulled out a saucepan, then a pair of boots, 
followed by a bust of Ledru Rollin with a broken nose—, 
then an embroidered shirt and a pair of ragged pantaloons, 
and Gervaise perceived a mingled and odious smell of 
tobacco, leather and dust. 

No, the old hat was not in the left corner ; in its place 
was a pin-cushion, the gift of some woman. All at once 
the strange anxiety with which she had watched the open- 
ing of this trunk disappeared, and in its place came an 
intense sadness as she followed each article with her eyes 
as Lantier took them out, and wondered which belonged 


226 


l’assom moir. 


to her time, and which to the days when another woman 
filled his life. 

“ Look here, Poisson,” cried Lantier, pulling out a 
small book. It was a scurrilous attack on the Emperor, 
printed at Brussels, entitled The Amours of Napoleon III. 

Poisson was aghast. He found no words with which 
to defend the Emperor. It was in a book — of course 
therefore, it was true. Lantier, with a laugh of triumph, 
turned away and began to pile up his books and papers, 
grumbling a little that there were no shelves on which to 
put them. Gervaise promised to buy some for him. He 
owned Louis Blanc’s Histoire de Dix Ans , all but the first 
volume, which he had never had; Lamartine’s Les Giron- 
dins ; The Mysteries of Paris , and The Wandering Jew, by 
Eugene Sue; without counting a pile of incendiary 
volumes which he had picked up at book-stalls. His old 
newspapers he regarded with especial respect. He had 
collected them with care for years : whenever he had read 
an article at a cafe of which he approved, he bought the 
journal and preserved it. He consequently had an enor- 
mous quantity, of all dates and names, tied together with- 
out order or sequence. 

He laid them all in a corner of the room, saying as he 
did so : 

“ If people would study those sheets and adopt the ideas 
therein, society would be far better organized than it now 
is. Your Emperor and all his minions would come down 
a bit on the ladder — ” 

Here he was interrupted by Poisson, whose red imperial 
and moustache irradiated his pale face. 


l’assommoir. 227 

“And the armv,” he said, “what would you do with 
that?” 

Lantier became very much excited. 

“ The army ! ” he cried. “ I would scatter it to the four 
winds of heaven! I want the military system of the 
country abolished ! I want the abolition of titles and 
monopolies ! I want salaries equalized ! I want liberty 
for every one! Divorces too — ” 

“ Yes ; divorces, of course,” interposed Boche. “ That 
is needed iu the cause of morality.” 

Poisson threw back his head, ready for an argument, 
but Gervaise, who did not like discussions, interfered. 
She had recovered from the torpor into which she had 
been plunged by the sight of this trunk, and she asked 
the men to take another glass. Lantier was suddenly 
subdued and drank his wine, but Boche looked at Poisson 
uneasily. 

“All this talk is between ourselves, is it not?” he said 
to the policeman. 

Poisson did not allow him to finish : he laid his hand 
on his heart and declared that he was no spy. Their 
words went in at one ear and out at another. He had 
forgotten them already. 

Coupeau by this time appeared, and more wine was sent 
for. But Poisson dared linger no longer, and, stiff and 
haughty, he departed through the court-yard. 

From the very first Lantier was made thoroughly at 
home. Lantier had his separate room, private entrance 
and key. But he went through the shop almost always. 


228 


L’ASSOMMOIE. 


The accumulation of linen disturbed Gervaise, for hef 
husband never arranged the boxes he had promised, and 
she was obliged to stow it away in all sorts of places, 
under the bed and in the corner. She did not like 
making up fitienne’s mattress late at night either. 

Goujet had spoken of sending the child to Lille to his 
own old master, who wanted apprentices. The plan pleased 
her, particularly as the boy, who was not very happy at 
home, was impatient to become his own master. But she 
dared not ask Lantier, who had come there to live, osten- 
sibly to be near his son. She felt, therefore, that it was 
hardly a good plan to send the boy away within a couple 
of weeks after his father’s arrival. 

When, however, she did make up her mind to approach 
the subject, he expressed warm approval of the idea, 
saying that youths were far better in the country than in 
Paris. 

Finally it was decided that fitienne should go, and, 
when the morning of his departure arrived, Lantier read 
his son a long lecture and then sent him off, and the 
house settled down into new habits. 

Gervaise became accustomed to seeing the dirty linen 
lying about, and to seeing Lantier coming in and going 
out. He still talked with an important air, of his business 
operations. He went out daily, dressed with the utmost 
care, and came home declaring that he was worn out with 
the discussions in which he had been engaged, and which 
involved the gravest and most important interests. 

He rose about ten o’clock, took a walk if the day 


l’a sso :>i Yi o i r?. 


229 


pleased him, and if it rained he sat in the shop and read 
his paper. He liked to be there. It was his delight to 
live surrounded by a circle of worshipping women, and he 
basked indolently in the warmth and atmosphere of ease 
and comfort, which characterized the place. 

At first Lantier took his meals at the restaurant at the 
corner. But after a while he dined three or four times a 
week with the Coupeaus, and finally requested permission 
to board with them, and agreed to pay them fifteen 
francs each Saturday. Thus he was regularly installed 
and was one of the family. He was seen in his shirt 
sleeves in the shop every morning attending to any little 
matters, or receiving orders from the customers. He 
induced Gervaise to leave her own wine merchant and 
go to a friend of his own. Then he found fault with 
the bread, and sent Augustine to the Vienna bakery in 
\ distant faubourg. He changed the grocer, but kept 
the butcher on account of his political opinions. 

At the end of a month he had instituted a change in the 
cuisine. Everything was cooked in oil : being a Prov&iQal, 
that was what he adored. He made the omelettes himself, 
which were as tough as leather. He superintended Mamma 
Coupeau, and insisted that the beefsteaks should be 
thoroughly cooked, until they were like the soles of an old 
shoe. He watched the salad to see that nothing went in 
which he did not like. His favorite dish was vermicelli, 
into which he poured half a bottle of oil. This he and 
Gervaise eat together, for the others being Parisians, could 
not be induced to taste it. 


230 


l’assommoie. 


By degrees Lantier attended to all those affairs which 
fall to the share of the master of the house, and to various 
details of their business in addition. He insisted that if the 
five francs which the Lorilleux people had agreed to pay 
toward the support of Mamma Coupeau was not forth- 
coming, that they should go to law about it. In fact, ten 
francs was what they ought to pay. He himself would 
go and see if he could not make them agree to that. He 
went up at once and asked them in such a way that he 
returned in triumph with the ten francs. And Madame 
Lerat, too, did the same, at his representation. Mamma 
Coupeau could have kissed Lantier’s hands, who played the 
part beside, of an arbiter in the quarrels between the old 
woman and Gervaise. 

The latter, as was natural, sometimes lost patience with 
the old woman, who retreated to her bed to weep. He 
would bluster about and ask if they were simpletons to 
amuse people with their disagreements, and finally induced 
them to kiss and be friends once more. 

He expressed his mind freely in regard to Nana also. 
In his opinion she was brought up very badly, and here 
he was quite right ; for when her father cutfed her, her 
mother upheld her, and when in her turn the mother 
reproved, the father made a scene. 

Nana was delighted at this, and felt herself free to do 
much as she pleased. 

She had started a new game at the Farriery opposite. 
She spent entire days swinging on the shafts of the wagons. 
She concealed herself, with her troop of followers, at the 


l’assommoie. 


231 


back of the dark court, redly lighted by the forge, and 
then would make sudden rushes, with screams and whoops, 
followed by every child in the neighborhood, reminding 
one of a flock of martins or sparrows. 

Lantier was the only one whose scoldings had any effect. 
She listened to him graciously. This child of ten years 
of age, precocious and vicious, coquetted with him as if 
she had been a grown woman. He finally assumed the 
care of her education. He taught her to dance and to 
talk slang ! 

Thus a year passed away. The whole neighborhood sup- 
posed Lantier to be a man of means — otherwise, how did 
the Coupeaus live as they did ? Gervaise, to be sure, still 
made money ; but she supported two men who did noth- 
ing, and the shop, of course, did not make enough for that. 
The truth was that Lantier had never paid one sou, either 
for board or lodging. He said he would let it run on, 
and when it amounted to a good sum, he would pay it all 
at once. 

After that Gervaise never dared to ask him for a centime. 
She got bread, wine and meat on credit; bills were run- 
ning up everywhere, for their expenditures amounted to 
three and four francs every day. She had never paid 
anything, even a trifle on account, to the man of whom she 
had bought her furniture, nor to Coupeau’s three friends 
who had done the work in Lantier’s room. The trades- 
people were beginning to grumble, and treated her with 
less politeness. 

But she seemed to be insensible to this : she chose the 


232 


l’assommoir. 


most expensive things, having thrown economy to the 
winds, since she had given up paying for things at once. 
She always intended, however, to pay eventually, and 
had a vague notion of earning hundreds of francs daily in 
some extraordinary way, by which she could pay all these 
people. 

About the middle of summer ClSmence departed, for 
there was not enough work for two women ; she had waited 
for her money for some weeks. Lantier and Coupeau were 
quite undisturbed, however. They were in the best of 
spirits, and seemed to be growing fat over the ruined 
business. 

In the Quartier there was a vast deal of gossip. Every- 
body wondered as to the terms on which Lantier and 
Gervaise now stood. The Lorilleux viciously declared 
that Gervaise would be glad enough to resume her old 
relations with Lantier, but that he would have nothing to 
do with her, for she had grown old and ugly. The Boche 
people took a different view ; but while every one declared 
that the whole arrangement was a most improper one, they 
finally accepted it as quite a matter of course, and alto- 
gether natural. 

It is quite possible there were other homes which were 
quite as open to invidious remarks, within a stone’s throw, 
but these Coupeaus, as their neighbors said, were good, 
kind people. Lantier was especially ingratiating. It 
was decided, therefore, to let things go their own way 
undisturbed. 

Gervaise lived quietly indifferent to, and possibly entirely 


l'asso mmoir. 


233 


unsuspicious of, all these scandals. By-and-by it came to 
pass that her husband’s own people looked on her as utterly 
heartless. Madame Lerat made her appearance every 
evening, and she treated Lantier as if he were utterly 
irresistible, into whose arms any and every woman would 
be only too glad to fall. An actual league seemed to be 
forming against Gervaise: all the women insisted on 
giving her a lover. 

But she saw none of these fascinations in him. He had 
changed, unquestionably, and the external changes were 
all in his favor. He wore a frock coat, and had acquired 
a certain polish. But she who knew him so well looked 
down into his soul through his eyes, and shuddered at 
much she saw there. She could not understand what 
others saw in him to admire. And she said so one day 
to Virginie. Then Madame Lerat and Yirginie vied 
with each other in the stories they told of ClSmence and 
himself — what they did and said whenever her back was 
turned — and now they were sure, since she had left the 
establishment, that he went regularly to see her. 

“Well, what of it?” asked Gervaise, her voice trem- 
bling. “ What have I to do with that?” 

And she looked into Virginie’s dark brown eyes, which 
were specked with gold, and emitted sparks as do those 
of cats. But the woman put on a stupid look as she 
answered : 

“Why, nothing, of course; only I should think you 
would advise him not to have anything to do with such a 
person.” 


234 


l’assommoir. 


Lantier was gradually changing his manner to Gervaise. 
Now, when he shook hands with her, he held her fingers 
longer than was necessary. He watched her incessantly, 
and fixed his bold eyes upon her. He leaned over her so 
closely that she felt his breath on her cheek. But one 
evening, being alone with her, he caught her in both arms. 
At that moment Goujet entered. Gervaise wrenched her- 
self free, and the three exchanged a few words as if nothing 
had happened. Goujet was very pale and seemed em- 
barrassed, supposing that he had intruded upon them, and 
that she had pushed Lantier aside only because she did 
not choose to be embraced in public. 

The next day Gervaise v was miserable, unhappy and 
restless. She could not iron a handkerchief. She wanted 
to see Goujet, aud tell him just what had happened, but 
ever since Etienne had gone to Lille, she had given up 
going to the Forge, as she was quite unable to face the 
knowing winks with which his comrades received her. 
But this day she determined to go ; and taking an empty 
basket on her arms she started off, pretending that she 
was going with skirts to some customers in La Rue des 
Portes-Blanches. 

Goujet seemed to be expecting her, for she met him 
loitering on the corner. 

“Ah,” he said, with a wan smile, “you are going home, 
I presume?” 

He hardly knew what he was saying, and they both 
turned toward Montmartre without another word. They 
merely wished to go away from the Forge. They passed 


l’assommoie. 


235 


several manufactories and soon found themselves with an 
open field before them. A goat was tethered near by and 
bleating as it browsed, and a dead tree was crumbling 
away in the hot sun. 

“ One might almost think one’s self in the country,” 
murmured Gervaise. 

They took a seat under the dead tree. The clear- 
starcher set the basket down at her feet. Before them 
stretched the heights of Montmartre, with its rows of 
yellow and gray houses amid clumps of trees, and when 
they threw back their heads a little they saw the whole sky 
above, clear and cloudless ; but the sunlight dazzled them, 
and they looked over to the misty outlines of the faubourg, 
and watched the smoke rising from tall chimneys in regu- 
lar puffs, indicating the machinery which impelled it. 
These great sighs seemed to relieve their own oppressed 
breasts. 

“Yes,” said Gervaise, after a long silence. “I have 
been on a long walk, and I came out — ” 

She stopped : after having been so eager for an explana- 
tion she found herself unable to speak, and overwhelmed 
with shame. She knew that he as well as herself had 
come to that place with the wish and intention of speaking 
on one especial subject, and yet neither of them dared to 
allude to it. The occurrence of the previous evening 
weighed on both their souls. 

Then with a heart torn with anguish, and with tears in 
her eyes, she told him of the death of Madame Bijard, 
who had breathed her last that morning after suffering 
unheard-of agonies. 


236 


l’assommoir. 


“ It was caused by a kick of Bijard’s,” she said, in her 
low, soft voice; “some internal injury. For three days she 
has suffered frightfully. Why are not such men pun- 
ished ? I suppose, though, if the law undertook to pun- 
ish all the wretches who kill their wives that it would 
have too much to do. After all, one kick more or less: 
what does it matter in the end ? And this poor creature, 
in her desire to save her husband from the scaffold, de- 
clared she had fallen over a tub.” 

Goujet did not speak. He sat pulling up the tufts of 
grass. 

“ It is not a fortnight,” continued Gervaise, “ since she 
weaned her last baby ; and here is that child Lalie, left to 
take care of two mites. She is not eight years old, but as 
quiet and sensible as if she were a grown woman ; and 
her father kicks and strikes her too. Poor little soul ! 
There are some persons in this world who seem born to 
suffer.” 

Goujet looked at her, and then said suddenly, with 
trembling lips : 

“You made me suffer yesterday.” 

Gervaise clasped her hands imploringly, and he con- 
tinued : 

“ I knew of course how it must end : only you should 
not have allowed me to think — ” 

He could not finish. She started up, seeing what his 
convictions were. She cried out : 

“ You are wrong ! I swear to you that you are wrong ! 
He was going to kiss me, but his lips did not touch me, 


l’assommoir. 


237 


and it is the very first time that he made the attempt. 
Believe me, for I swear — on all that I hold most sacred— 
that I am telling you the truth.” 

But the blacksmith shook his head. He knew that 
women did not always tell the truth on such points, 
Gervaise then became very grave. 

“You know me well,” she said; “you know that I am 
no liar. I again repeat that Lantier and I are friends. 
We shall never be anything more, for if that should ever 
come to pass, I should regard myself as the vilest of the 
vile, and should be unworthy of the friendship of a man 
like yourself.” Her face was so honest, her eyes were so 
clear and frank, that he could do no less than believe her. 
Once more he breathed freely. He held her hand for the 
first time. Both were silent. White clouds sailed slowly 
above their heads with the majesty of swans. The goat 
looked at them and bleated piteously, eager to be released, 
and they stood hand in hand on that bleak slope with tears 
in their eyes. 

“Your mother likes me no longer,” said Gervaise, in a 
low voice. “Do not say no; — how can it be otherwise? 
We owe you so much money.” 

He roughly shook her arm in his eagerness to check the 
words on her lips — he would not hear her. He tried to 
speak, but his throat was too dry; he choked a little, and 
then he burst out: 

“Listen to me,” he cried; “I have long wished to say 
something to you. You are not happy. My mother says 
things are all going wrong with you, and” — he hesitated; 
“ we must go away together and at once.” 


238 


l’assommoir. 


She looked at him, not understanding him, but 
impressed by this abrupt declaration of a love from him, 
who had never before opened his lips in regard to it. 

“What do you mean?” she said. 

“I mean,” he answered, without looking in her face, 
“that we two can go away and live in Belgium. It is 
almost the same to me as home, and both of us could get 
work and live comfortably.” 

The color came to her face, which she would have 
hidden on his shoulder to hide her shame and confusion. 
He was a strange fellow to propose an elopement. It was 
like a book, and like the things she heard of in high 
society. She had often seen and known of the workmen 
about her, making love to married women, but they did 
not think of running away with them. 

“Ah, Monsieur Goujet!” she murmured; but she could 
say no more. 

“Yes,” he said; “we two would live all by ourselves.” 

But as her self-possession returned, she refused with 
firmness. 

“It is impossible,” she said; “and it would be very 
wrong. I am married, and I have children. I know that 
you are fond of me, and I love you too much to allow you 
to commit any such folly as you are talking of, and this 
would be an enormous folly. No; we must live on as 
we are. We respect each other now. Let us continue to 
do so. That is a great deal, and will help us over many 
a roughness in our paths. And when we try to do right, 
we are sure of a reward.” 


l’assommoie. 


239 


He shook his head as he listened to her, but he felt she 
was right. Suddenly, he snatched her in his arms and 
kissed her furiously once, and then dropped her and turned 
abruptly away. She was not angry, but the locksmith 
trembled from head to foot. He began to gather some of 
the wild daisies, not knowing what to do with his hands, 
and tossed them into her empty basket. This occupation 
amused him and tranquillized him. He broke off the head 
of the flowers, and when he missed his mark and they fell 
short of the basket, laughed aloud. 

Gervaise sat with her back against the tree, happy and 
calm. And when she set forth on her walk home, her 
basket was full of daisies, and she was talking of fitienne. 

In reality, Gervaise was more afraid of Lantier than 
9he was willing to admit even to herself. She was fully 
determined never to allow the smallest familiarity; but 
she was afraid that she might yield to his persuasions, for 
she well knew the weakness and amiability of her nature, 
and how hard it was for her to persist in any opposition 
to any one. 

Lantier, however, did not put this determination on her 
part to the test. He was often alone with her now, and 
was always quiet and respectful. Coupeau declared to 
every one that Lantier was a true friend. There was no 
nonsense about him; he could be relied upon always and 
in all emergencies. And he trusted him thoroughly, he 
declared. When they went out together — the three, on 
Sundays — he bade his wife and Lantier walk arm- 
in-arm, while he mounted guard behind, ready to cuff the 


240 


l’a ssommoir. 


ears of any one who ventured on a disrespectful glance, a 
sneer or a wink. 

He laughed good-naturedly before Lantier’s face, told 
him he put on a great many airs with his coats and his 
books, but he liked him in spite of them. They under- 
stood each other, he said, and a man’s liking for another 
man is more solid and enduring than his love for a woman. 

Coupeau and Lantier made the money fly. Lantier was 
continually borrowing money from Gervaise ; ten francs, 
twenty francs, whenever he knew there was money in the 
house. It was always because he was in pressing need for 
some business matter. But still on those same days he 
took Coupeau off with him, and at some distant restaurant 
ordered and devoured such dishes as they could not obtain 
at home, and these dishes were washed down by bottle 
after bottle of wine. 

Coupeau would have preferred to get tipsy without the 
food, but he was impressed by the elegance and experience 
of his friend who found on the carte so many extraordinary 
sauces. He had never seen a man like him, he declared, 
so dainty and so difficult. He wondered if all Southerners 
were the same, as he watched him discussing the dishes 
with the waiter, and sending away a dish that was too 
salt, or had too much pepper. 

Neither could he endure a draught: his skin was all 
blue if a door was left open, and he made no end of a 
row until it was closed again. 

Lantier was not wasteful in certain ways, for he never 
gave a gargon more than two sous after he had served a 
meal that cost some seven or eight francs. 


l’assommoir, 


241 


They never alluded to these dinners the next morn- 
ing at their simple breakfast with Gervaise. Naturally, 
people caunot frolic and work too, and since Lantier 
had become a member of his household, Coupeau had 
never lifted a tool. He knew every drinking-shop for 
miles around, and would sit and guzzle, deep into the 
night, not always pleased to find himself deserted by 
Lantier, who never was known to be overcome by liquor. 

About the first of November, Coupeau turned over a 
new leaf ; he declared he was going to work the next day, 
and Lantier thereupon preached a little sermon, declaring 
that labor ennobled man, and in the morning arose before 
it was light, to accompany his friend to the shop, as a mark 
of the respect he felt. But when they reached a wine- 
shop on the corner, they entered to take a glass, merely 
to cement good resolutions. 

Near the counter they beheld Bibi-la-Grillade smoking 
his pipe with a sulky air. 

“ What is the matter, Bibi ? ” cried Coupeau. 

“Nothing!” answered his comrade, “except that I got 
my walking-ticket, yesterday. Perdition seize all masters!” 
he added, fiercely. 

And Bibi accepted a glass of liquor. Lantier defended 
the masters. They were not so bad after all : then, too, 
how were the men to get along without them ? “ To be 

sure,” continued Lantier, “I manage pretty well, for I 
don’t have much to do with them myself!” 

“Come, my boy,” he added, turning to Coupeau, “we 
shall be late if we don’t look out.” 


242 


l’assommoir. 


Bibi went out with them. Day was just breaking, gray 
and cloudy. It had rained the night before, and was 
damp and warm. The street-lamps had just been ex- 
tinguished. There was one continued tramp of men going 
to their work. 

Coupeau, with his bag of tools on his shoulder, shuffled 
along: his footsteps had long since lost their ring. 

“Bibi,” he said, “come with me; the master told me to 
bring a comrade if I pleased.” 

“ It won’t be me, then,” answered Bibi. “ I wash my 
hands of them all. No more masters for me, I tell you ! 
But I dare say Mes-Bottes would be glad of the offer.” 

And as they reached the Assoramoir, they saw Mes- 
Bottes within. Notwithstanding the fact that it was day- 
light, the gas was blazing in the Assommoir. Lantier 
remained outside, and told Coupeau to make haste, as 
they had only ten minutes. 

“Do you think I will work for your master?” cried 
Mes-Bottes. “He is the greatest tyrant in the kingdom. 
No, I should rather suck my thumbs for a year. You 
won’t stay there, old man! No, you won’t stay there 
three days, now I tell you ! ” 

“Are you in earnest?” asked Coupeau, uneasily. 

“Yes, I am in earnest. You can’t speak — you can’t 
move. Your nose is held close to the grindstone all the 
time. He watches you every moment. If you drink a 
drop, he says you are tipsy, and makes no end of a row ! ” 

“ Thanks for the warning. I will try this one day, and 
if the master bothers me, I will just tell him what I thiuk 
of him, and turn on my heel and walk out.” 


l’assommoie. 


243 


Coupeau shook his comrade’s hand and turned to de- 
part, much to the disgust of Mes-Bottes, who angrily 
asked if the master could not wait five minutes. He 
could not go until lie had taken a drink. Lantier entered 
to join in, and Mes-Bottes stood there with his hat on the 
back of his head — shabby, dirty and staggering, ordering 
Father Colombe to pour out the glasses, and not to cheat. 

At that moment Goujet and Lorilleux were seen going 
by. Mes-Bottes shouted to them to come in, but they 
both refused — Goujet saying he wanted nothing, and the 
other — as he hugged a little box of gold chains close to his 
heart — that he was in a hurry. 

“ Milksops ! ” muttered Mes-Bottes ; “ they had best pass 
their lives in the corner by the fire ! ” 

Returning to the counter, he renewed his attack on 
Father Colombe, whom he accused of adulterating his 
liquors. 

It was now bright daylight, and the proprietor of the 
Assommoir began to extinguish the lights. Coupeau made 
excuses for his brother-in-law, who he said could never 
drink; it was not his fault, poor fellow! He approved, 
too, of Goujet, declaring that it was a good thing never to 
be thirsty. Again he made a move to depart and go to 
his work, when Lantier, with his dictatorial air, reminded 
him that he had not paid his score, and that he could not 
go off in that way, even if it were to his duty. 

“I am sick of the words ‘work’ and ‘duty,’” muttered 
Mes-Bottes. 

They all paid for their drinks with the exception of 
Bibi-la-Grillade, who stooped toward the ear of Father 


244 


L ’ A 8 S O M M O I ft . 


Colombe and whispered a few words. The latter shook 
his head, whereupon Mes-Bottes burst into a torrent of 
invectives; but Colombe stood in impassive silence, and 
when there was a lull in the storm, he said : 

“ Let your friends pay for you, then — that is a very 
simple thing to do.” 

By this time Mes-Bottes was what is properly called 
howling drunk, and as he staggered away from the 
counter, he struck the bag of tools which Coupeau had 
over his shoulder. 

“You look like a pedlar with his pack, or a hump- 
back. Put it down ! ” 

Coupeau hesitated a moment ; and then slowly and de- 
liberately, as if he had arrived at a decision after mature 
deliberation, he laid his bag on the ground. 

“It is too late to go this morning. I will wait xintil 
after breakfast now. I will tell him my wife was sick. 
Listen, Father Colombe: I will leave my bag of tools 
under this bench and come for them this afternoon.” 

Lantier assented to this arrangement. Of course work 
was a good thing, but friends and good company were 
better ; and the four men stood, first on one foot and then 
on the other, for more than an hour, and then they had 
another drink all round. After that a game of billiards 
was proposed, and they went noisily down the street to 
the nearest billiard-room, which did not happen to please 
the fastidious Lantier ; who, however, soon recovered his 
good humor under the effect of the admiration excited in 
the minds of his friends by his play, which was really 
very extraordinary. 


l’assommoir. 245 

When the hour arrived for breakfast Coupeau had an 
idea. 

“ Let us go and find Bee Sali. I know where lie works. 
We will make him breakfast with us.” 

The idea was received with applause. The party 
started forth. A fine drizzling rain was now falling, but 
they were too warm within to mind this light sprinkling 
on their shoulders. 

Coupeau took them to a factory where his friend 
worked, and at the door gave two sous to a small boy to 
go up and find Bee Sali, and to tell him that his wife was 
very sick and had sent for him. 

Bee Sali quickly appeared, not in the least disturbed, as 
he suspected a joke. 

“Ah ! ha ! ” he said, as he saw his friend. “ I knew it ! ” 
They went to a restaurant and ordered a famous repast a f 
pigs’ feet, and they sat and sucked the bones and talked 
about their various employers. 

“Will you believe,” said Bee Sali, “that mine has had 
the brass to hang up a bell ! Does he think we are slaves 
to run when he rings it? Never was he so mistaken — ” 

“ I am obliged to leave you ! ” said Coupeau, rising at 
last with an important air. “I promised my wife to 
go to work to-day, and I leave you with the greatest 
reluctance.” 

The others protested and entreated, but he seemed so 
decided that they all accompanied him to the Assommoir 
to get his tools. He pulled out the bag from under the 
bench and laid it at his feet, while they all took another 


246 


LAS SOM M O I It. 


drink. The clock struck one and Coupeau kicked his 
bag under the bench again. He would go to-morrow to 
the factory ; one day really did not make much difference. 

The rain had ceased, and one of the men proposed a 
little walk on the Boulevards to stretch their legs. The 
air seemed to stupefy them, and they loitered along with 
their arms swinging at their sides, without exchanging a 
word. When they reached the wine-shop on the corner 
of La Rue des Poissonniers, they turned in mechanically. 
Lantier led the way into a small room divided from the 
public one by windows only. This room was much 
affected by Lantier, who thought it more stylish by far, 
than the public one. He called for a newspaper, spread it 
out, and examined it with a heavy frown. Coupeau and 
Mes-Bottes played a game of cards, while wine and glasses 
occupied the ceutre of the table. 

“ What is the news ? ” asked Bibi. 

Lantier did not reply instantly ; but presently, as the 
others emptied their glasses, he began to read aloud an 
account of a frightful murder, to which they listened 
with eager interest. Then ensued a hot discussion, and 
argument as to the probable motives for the murder. 

By this time the wine was exhausted, and they called 
for more. About five, all except Lantier were in a state of 
beastly intoxication, and he found them so disgusting, that 
as usual, he made his escape without his comrades noticing 
his defection. 

Lantier walked about a little, and then, when he felt 
all right, went home, and told Gervaise that her husband 


l’a s s o m mo if. 


247 


was with his friends. Coupeau did not make his appear- 
ance for two days. Rumors were brought in that lie had 
been seen in one place and then in another, and always 
alone. His comrades had apparently deserted him. Ger- 
vaise shrugged her shoulders with a resigned air. 

“ Good heavens ! ” she said, “ what a way to live ! ” 
She never thought of hunting him up. Indeed, on the 
afternoon of the third day, when she saw him through the 
window of a wine-shop, she turned back and would not 
pass the door. She sat up for him, however, and listened 
for his step or the sound of his hand fumbling at the lock. 

The next morning he came in, only to begin the same 
thing at night again. This went on for a week ; and at 
last Gervaise went to the Assommoir to make inquiries. 
Yes, he had been there a number of times, but no one 
knew where he was just then. Gervaise picked up the bag 
of tools and carried them home. 

Lantier, seeing that Gervaise was out of spirits, proposed 
that she should go with him to a Cafi§ concert. She refused 
at first, being in no mood for laughing, otherwise she 
would have consented, for La n tier’s proposal seemed to be 
prompted by the purest friendliness. He seemed really 
sorry for her trouble, and indeed assumed an absolutely 
paternal air. 

Coupeau had never stayed away like this before, and 
she continually found herself going to the door, and 
looking up and down the street. She could not keep to 
her work, but wandered restlessly from place to place. Had 
Coupeau broken a limb? Had he fallen into the water? 


248 


l’assommoir. 


She did not think she could care so very much if he were 
killed, if this uncertainty were over — if she only knew 
what she had to expect. But it was very trying to live in 
this suspense. 

Finally, when the gas was lighted, and Lantier renewed 
his proposition of the caf6, she consented. After all, why 
should she not go? Why should she refuse all pleasures 
because her husband chose to behave in this disgraceful 
way ? If he would not come in, she should go out. 

They hurried through their dinner, and as she went 
out with Lantier at eight o’clock, Gervaise begged Nana 
and Mamma Coupeau to go to bed early. The shop was 
closed and she gave the key to Madame Boche, telling her 
that if Coupeau came in, it would be as well to look out 
for the lights. 

Lantier stood whistling while she gave these directions. 
Gervaise wore her silk dress, and she smiled as they walked 
down the street, in alternate shadow and light from the 
shop windows. 

The Caf6 concert was on the Boulevard de Rochechou- 
mart. It had once been a cafe, and had had a coucert-room 
built on of rough planks. 

Over the door was a row of glass globes brilliantly 
illuminated. Long placards, nailed on wood, were stand- 
ing quite out in the street by the side of the gutter. 

“ Here we are ! ” said Lantier. “ Mademoiselle Amanda 
makes her d6but to-night.” 

Bibi-la-Grillade was reading the placard. Bibi had a 
black eye, as if he had been fighting. 


l’assommoib. 


249 


“Hallo!” cried Lantier. “How are you? Where is 
Coupeau? Have you lost him?” 

“Yes, since yesterday. We had a little fight with a 
waiter at Baquets. He wanted us to pay twice for what 
we had, and somehow Coupeau and I got separated, and I 
have not seen him since.” 

And Bibi gave a great yawn. He was in a disgraceful 
state of intoxication. He looked as if he had been rolling 
in the gutter. 

“And you know nothing of my husband?” asked 
Gervaise. 

“No, nothing. I think, though, he went off with a 
coachman.” 

Lantier and Gervaise passed a very agreeable evening 
at the Caf6 concert, and when the doors were closed at 
eleven, they went home in a sauntering sort of fashion. 
They were in no hurry, and the night was fair, though a 
little cool. Lantier hummed the air which Amanda had 
sung, and Gervaise added the chorus. The room had been 
excessively warm, and she had drank several glasses of 
wine. 

She expressed a great deal of indignation at Made- 
moiselle Amanda’s costume. How did she dare face all 
those men dressed like that? But her skin was beautiful,, 
certainly, and she listened with considerable curiosity to 
all that Lantier could tell her about the woman. 

“Everybody is asleep,” said Gervaise, after she had 
rung the bell three times. 

The door was finally opened ; but there was no light. 

16 


250 


I/ASSOMMOIR. 


She knocked at the door of the Boche quarters, and asked 
for her key. 

The sleepy Concierge muttered some unintelligible words, 
from which Gervaise finally gathered that Coupeau had 
been brought in by Poisson, and that the key was in the 
door. 

Gervaise stood aghast at the disgusting sight that met 
her eyes as she entered the room where Coupeau lay wal- 
lowing on the floor. 

She shuddered and turned away. This sight annihi- 
lated every ray of sentiment remaining in her heart. 

“What^m I to do?” she said, piteously. “I can’t 
stay here!” 

Lantier snatched her hand. 

“ Gervaise,” he said, “ listen to me.” 

But she understood him, and drew hastily back. 

“No, no! Leave me, Auguste. I can manage.” 

But Lantier would not obey her. He put his arm 
around her waist, and pointed to her husband as he lay 
snoring, with his mouth wide open. 

“Leave me!” said Gervaise, imploringly; and she 
pointed to the room where her mother-in-law and Nana 
slept. 

“You will wake them!” she said. “You would not 
shame me before my child ? Pray go !” 

He said no more, but slowly and softly kissed her on 
her ear, as he had so often teased her by doing in those 
old days. Gervaise shivered, and her blood was stirred to 
madness in her veins. 


LASS OMMOIS 


251 


“What does that beast care?” she thought. “It is his 
fault,” she murmured ; “ all his fault. He sends me from 
his room ! ” 

And as Lantier drew her toward his door, Nana’s face 
appeared for a moment at the window which lighted her 
little cabinet. 

The mother did not see the child, who stood in her 
night-dress, pale with sleep. She looked at her father as 
he lay, and then watched her mother disappear in Lantier’s 
room. She was perfectly grave, but in her eyes burned 
the sensual curiosity of premature vice. 


252 


l’assommoir. 


CHAPTER IX 


CLOUDS IN THE HORIZON, 



HAT winter Mamma Coupeau was very ill with an 


-L asthmatic attack, which she always expected in the 
month of December. 

The poor woman suffered much, and the depression of 
her spirits was naturally very great. It must be confessed 
that there was nothing very gay in the aspect of the room 
where she slept. Between her bed and that of the little 
girl there was just room for a chair. The paper hung in 
6trips from the wall. Through a round window near the 
ceiling came a dreary gray light. There was little ventila- 
tion in the room, which made it especially unfit for the 
old woman, who at night, when Nana was there, and she 
could hear her breathe, did not complain ; but when left 
'alone during the day, moaned incessantly, rolling her head 
about on her pillow. 

“ Ah ! ” she said, (< how unhappy I am ! It is the same 
as a prison. I wish I were dead ! ” 

And as soon as a visitor came in — Virginie or Madame 
Boche— she poured out her grievances. “ I should not suffer 
so much among strangers. I should like, some times, a 
cup of tisane, but I can’t get it; and Nana — that child 
whom I have raised from the cradle, disappears in the 
morning and never shows her face again until night, when 


l’assommoib. 


253 


she sleeps right through and never once asks me how I 
am, or if she can do anything for me. It will soon be 
over, and I really believe this clear-starcher would smother 
me herself — if she were not afraid of the law 1 ” 

Gervaise, it is true, was not as gentle and sweet as 
she had been. Everything seemed to be going wrong 
with her, and she had lost heart and patience together. 
Mamma Coupeau had overheard her saying that she was 
really a great burthen. This naturally cut her to ths 
heart, and when she saw her eldest daughter, Madame 
Lerat, she wept piteously, and declared that she was being 
starved to death, and when these complaints drew from 
her daughter’s pocket a little silver, she expended it in 
dainties. 

She told the most preposterous tales to Madame Lerat 
about Gervaise — of her new finery, and of cakes and 
delicacies eaten in the corner, and many other things of 
infinitely more consequence. Then in a little while she 
turned against the Lorilleux, and talked of them in the 
most bitter manner. At the height of her illness it so 
happened that her two daughters met one afternoon at 
her bedside. Their mother made a motion to them to 
come closer. Then she went on to tell them, between 
paroxysms of coughing, that her son came home dead- 
drunk the night before, and that she was absolutely 
certain that Gervaise spent the night in Lantier’s room. 
“It is all the more disgusting,” she added, “ because I am 
certain that Nana heard what was going on quite as well 
as I did.” 


254 l’assommoir. 

The two women did not appear either shocked or sur- 
prised. 

“ It is none of our business,” said Madame Lorilleux. 
“If Coupeau does not choose to take any notice of her 
conduct, it is not for us to do so.” 

All the neighborhood were soon informed of the condi- 
tion of things by her two sisters-in-law, who declared they 
entered her doors only on their mother’s account, who, poor 
thing, was compelled to live amid these abominations. 

Every one accused Gervaise now of having perverted 
poor Lantier. “ Men will be men,” they said ; “ surely you 
can’t expect them to turn a cold shoulder to women who 
throw themselves at their heads. She has no possible 
excuse ; she is a disgrace to the whole street ! ” 

The Lorilleux invited Nana to dinner, that they might 
question her, but as soon as they began, the child looked 
absolutely stupid, and they could extort nothing from 
her. 

Amid this sudden and fierce indignation, Gervaise lived 
— indifferent, dull and stupid. At first she loathed herself, 
and if Coupeau laid his hand on her she shivered, and ran 
away from him. But, by degrees, she became accustomed 
to it. Her indolence had become excessive, and she only 
wished to be quiet and comfortable. 

After all, she asked herself, why should she care ? If her 
/over and her husband were satisfied, why should she not 
be, too? So the household went on much as usual to all 
appearance. In reality, whenever Coupeau came in tipsy, 
she left and went to Lantier’s room to sleep. She was not 


l’assommoir. 


255 


led there by passion or affection ; it was simply that it was 
more comfortable. She was very like a cat in her choice 
of soft, clean places. 

Mamma Coupeau never dared to speak out openly to 
the clear-starcher, but after a dispute she was unsparing in 
her hints and allusions. The first time, Gervaise fixed 
her eyes on her, and heard all she had to say in profound 
silence. Then without seeming to speak of herself, she 
took occasion to say not long afterward that when a woman 
was married to a man who was drinking himself to death, 
that a woman was very much to be pitied, and by no 
means to blame if she looked for consolation elsewhere. 

Another time, when taunted by the old woman, she 
went still further, and declared that Lantier was as much 
her husband as was Coupeau — that he was the father of 
two of her children. She talked a little twaddle about the 
laws of nature, and a shrewd observer would have seen 
that she — parrot-like — was repeating the words that some 
other person had put into her mouth. Besides, what were 
her neighbors doing all about her? They were not so 
extremely respectable that they had the right to attack her. 
And then she took house after house, and showed her 
mother-in-law that while apparently so deaf to gossip, she 
yet knew all that was going on about her. Yes, she knew 
— and now seemed to gloat over that, which once had 
shocked and revolted her. 

"It is none of my business, I admit,” she cried; "let 
each person live as he pleases, according to his own light, 
and let everybody else alone.” 


256 


l’assommoir, 


One day when Mamma Coupeau spoke out more clearly, 
she said with compressed lips: 

“Now look here: you are flat on your back, and you 
take advantage of that fact. I have never said a word to 
you about your own life, but I know it all the same — and 
it was atrocious! That is all! I am not going into par- 
ticulars. But remember, you had best not sit in judgment _ 
on me!” 

The old woman was nearly suffocated with rage and her 
cough. 

The next day Goujet came for his mother’s wash while 
Gervaise was out. Mamma Coupeau called him into her 
room and kept him for an hour. She read the young 
man’s heart; she knew that his suspicions made him mis- 
erable. And in revenge for something that had displeased 
her, she told him the truth with many sighs and tears, as 
if her daughter-in-law’s infamous conduct was a bitter 
blow to her. 

When Goujet left her room, he was deadly pale, and 
looked ten years older than when he went in. The old 
woman had, too, the additional pleasure of telling Gervaise 
on her return that Madame Goujet had sent word that her 
linen must be returned to her at once, ironed or unironed. 
And she was so animated and comparatively amiable that 
Gervaise scented the truth, and knew instinctively what 
she had done, and what she was to expect with Goujet. 
Pale and trembling, she piled the linen neatly in a basket, 
and set forth to see Madame Goujet. Years had passed 
since she had paid her friends one penny. The debt still 


l’assommoir, 


257 


stood at four hundred and twenty-five francs. Each time 
she took the money for her washing she spoke of being 
pressed just at that time. It was a great mortification for 
her. 

Coupeau was, however, less scrupulous, and said with a 
laugh, that if she kissed her friend occasionally in the 
corner, it would keep things straight and pay him well. 
Then Gervaise, with eyes blazing with indignation, would 
ask if he really meant that. Had he fallen so low? 
Neither should he speak of Goujet in that way in her 
presence. 

Every time she took home the linen of these former 
friends she ascended the stairs with a sick heart. 

“ Ah I it is you, is it ! ” said Madame Goujet, coldly, as 
she opened the door. 

Gervaise entered with some hesitation ; she did not dare 
attempt to excuse herself. She was no longer punctual to 
the hour nor the day-^everything about her was becoming 
perfectly disorderly. 

“For one whole week,” resumed the lace-mender, “you 
have kept me waiting. You have told me falsehood after 
falsehood. You have sent your apprentice to tell me 
that there was an accident — something had been spilled 
on them — they would come the next day — and so on. I 
have been unnecessarily annoyed and worried, besides 
losing much time. There is no sense in it! Now, what 
have you brought home? Are the shirts here which you 
have had for a month, and the skirt which was missing 
last week ? ” 


258 


l’assommoie. 


“Yes,” said Gervaise, almost inaudibly; “yes, the skirt 
is here. Look at it!” 

But Madame Goujet cried out in indignation : 

“ That skirt did not belong to her, and she would 
not have it. This was the crowning touch, if her things 
were to be changed in this way. She did not like other 
people’s things.” 

“And the shirts ? Where are they ? Lost, I suppose. 
Very well, settle it as you please, but these shirts I must 
have to-morrow morning ! ” 

There was a long silence. Gervaise was much disturbed 
by seeing that the door of Goujet’s room was wide open. 
He was there, she was sure, and listening to all these 
reproaches which she knew to be deserved, and to which 
she could not reply. She was very quiet and submissive, 
and laid the linen on the bed as quickly as possible. 

Madame Goujet began to examine the pieces. 

“ Well ! well ! ” she said, “ no one can praise your 
washing nowadays. There is not a piece here that is not 
dirtied by the iron. Look at this shirt: it is scorched, and 
the buttons are fairly torn off by the roqts. Everything 
comes back — that comes at all, I would say — with the 
buttons off. Look at that sacque: the dirt is all in it. 
No, no, I can’t pay for such washing as this!” 

She stopped talking while she counted the pieces. Then 
she exclaimed : 

“Two pair of stockings, six towels, and one napkin are 
missing from this week. You are laughing at me, it 
6eems. Now, just understand, I tell you to bring back all 


l’assommoir. 


259 


you have, ironed or not ironed. If in an hour jour woman 
is not here with the rest, I have done with you, Madame 
Coupeau ! ” 

At this moment Goujet coughed. Gervaise started. 
How could she bear being treated in this way before him ? 
And she stood confused and silent, waiting for the soiled 
clothes. 

Madame Gou jet had taken her place and her work by 
the window. 

“And the linen?” said Gervaise, timidly. 

“ Many thanks,” said the old woman. “ There is noth- 
ing this week.” 

Gervaise turned pale ; it was clear that Madame Goujet 
meant to take away her custom from her. She sank into 
a chair. She made no attempt at excuses ; she only asked 
a question. 

“Is Monsieur Goujet ill?” 

“He is not well; at least he has just come in and is 
lying down to rest a little.” 

Madame Goujet spoke very slowly, almost solemnly, 
her pale face encircled by her white cap, and wearing, as 
usual, her plain, black dress. 

And she explained that they were obliged to economize 
very closely. In future she herself would do their wash- 
ing. Of course Gervaise must know that this would not 
be necessary, had she and her husband paid their debt to 
her son. But, of course, they should submit; they should 
never think of going to law about it. While she spoke of 
the debt, her needle moved rapidly to and fro in the deli- 
cate meshes of her work. 


260 


l’assom moie. 


“ But,” continued Madame Goujet, "if you were to deny 
yourself a little, and be careful and prudent, you could 
soon discharge your debt to us ; you live too well, you 
spend too freely. Were you to give us only ten francs 
each month — ” 

She was interrupted by her son, who called impatiently, 
“ Mother ! come here, will you ?” 

When she returned she changed the conversation. Her 
son had undoubtedly begged her to say no more about this 
money to Gervaise. In spite of her evident determination 
to avoid this subject, she returned to it again in about ten 
minutes. She knew from the beginning just what would 
happen. She had said so at the time and all had turned 
out precisely as she had prophesied. The tin-worker had 
drank up the shop, and had left his wife to bear the load 
by herself. If her son had taken her advice he would 
never have lent the money. His marriage had fallen 
through, and he had lost his spirits. She grew very angry 
as she spoke, and finally accused Gervaise openly of having, 
with her husband, deliberately conspired to cheat her 
simple-hearted son. 

“ Many women,” she exclaimed, “ played the parts of 
hypocrites and prudes for years, and were found out at the 
last 1 ” 

“ Mother 1 mother ! ” called Goujet, peremptorily. 

She rose, and when she returned, said : 

“Go in : he wants to see you.” 

Gervaise obeyed, leaving the door open behind her. She 
found the room sweet and fresh-looking like that of a 
young girl, with its simple pictures and white curtains. 


l’a ssommoie. 


261 


Goujet, crushed by what he had heard from Mamma 
Coupeau, lay at full length on the bed, with pale face and 
haggard eyes. 

“ Listen !” he said. “ You must not mind my mother’s 
words, she does not understand. You do not owe me 
anything.” 

He staggered to his feet, and stood leaning against the 
bed and looking at her. 

“Are you ill?” she asked, nervously. 

“ No, not ill,” he answered, “ but sick at heart. Sick 
when I remember what you said and see the truth. 
Leave me. I cannot bear to look at you.” 

And he waved her away, not angrily, but with gi*eat de- 
cision. She went out without a word, for she had nothing 
to say. In the next room she took up her basket and 
stood still a moment; Madame Goujet did not look up, 
but she said : 

“Remember, I want my linen at once, and when that 
is all sent back to me, we will settle the account.” 

“ Yes,” answered Gervaise. And she closed the door, 
leaving behind her all that sweet order and cleanliness on 
which she had once placed so high a value. She returned 
to the shop with her head bowed down, and looking 
neither to the right nor the left. 

Mother Coupeau was sitting by the fire, having left her 
bed for the first time. Gervaise said nothing to her — not 
a word of reproach or congratulation. She felt deadly 
tired — all her bones ached as if she had been beaten. 
She thought life very hard, and wished that it were over 
for her. 


262 


l’assom moie. 


Gervaise soon grew to care for nothing but her three 
meals per day. The shop ran itself ; one by one her cus- 
tomers left her. Gervaise shrugged her shoulders half 
indifferently, half insolently ; everybody could leave her, she 
said : she could always get work* But she was mistaken ; 
and soon it became necessary for her to dismiss Madame 
Putois, keeping no assistant except Augustine, who seemed 
to grow more and more stupid as time went on. Ruin was 
fast approaching. Naturally, as indolence and poverty 
increased, so did lack of cleanliness. No one would ever 
have known that pretty blue shop in which Gervaise had 
formerly taken such pride. The windows were unwashed 
and covered with the mud scattered by the passing car- 
riages. Within it was still more forlorn : the dampness 
of the steaming linen had ruined the paper; everything 
was covered with dust; the stove, which once had been 
kept so bright, was broken and battered. The long 
ironing-table was covered with wine-stains and grease, 
looking as if it had served a whole garrison. The 
atmosphere was loaded with a smell of cooking and of 
sour starch. But Gervaise was unconscious of it. She 
did not notice the torn and untidy paper, and having 
ceased to pay any attention to personal cleanliness, was 
hardly likely to spend her time in scrubbing the greasy 
floors. She allowed the dust to accumulate over every- 
thing, and never lifted a finger to remove it. Her own 
comfort and tranquillity was now her first consideration. 

Her debts were increasing, but they had ceased to give her 
any uneasiness. She was no longer honest or straightfor* 


l’assommoie. 


263 


ward. She did not care whether she ever paid or not, so 
long as she got what she wanted. When one shop refused 
her more credit, she opened an account next door. She 
owed something in every shop in the whole Quartier. She 
dared not pass the grocer nor the baker in her own street, 
and was compelled to make a lengthy circuit each time 
she went out. The trades-people muttered and grumbled, 
and some went so far as to call her a thief and a 
swindler. 

One evening the man who had sold her the furniture 
for Lantier’s room came in with ugly threats. 

Such scenes were unquestionably disagreeable. She 
trembled for an hour after them, but they never took 
away her appetite. 

It was very stupid of these people, after all, she said to 
Lantier. How could she pay them if she had no money ? 
and where could she get money ? She closed her eyes 
to the inevitable, and would not think of the Future. 
Mamma Coupeau was well again, but the household had 
been disorganized for more than a year. In summer 
there was more work brought to the shop — white skirts 
and cambric dresses. There were ups and downs, there- 
fore : days when there was nothing in the house for 
supper, and others when the table was loaded. 

Mamma Coupeau was seen almost daily, going out with 
a bundle under her apron, and returning without it and 
with a radiant face, for the old woman liked the excite- 
ment of going to the Mont-de-Pi6t§. 

Gervaise was gradually emptying the house — linen 


264 


l’assommoir. 


and clothes — tools and furniture. In the beginning 6he 
took advantage of a good week, to take out what she had 
pawned the week before, but after a while she ceased to do 
that, and sold her tickets. There was only one thing 
which cost her a pang, and that was selling her clock. 
She had sworn she would not touch it; not unless she was 
dying of hunger, and when at last she saw her mother-in- 
law carry it away, she dropped into a chair and wept like 
a baby. But when the old woman came back with 
twenty-five francs, and she found she had five francs 
more than was demanded by the pressing debt, which 
had caused her to make the sacrifice, she was consoled, 
and sent out at once for four sous worth of brandy. 
When these two women were on good terms, they often 
drank a glass together sitting at the corner of the ironing- 
tablejfc 

Mamma Coupeau had a wonderful talent for bringing 
a glass in the pocket of her apron without spilling a drop. 
She did not care to have the neighbors know, but, in good 
truth, the neighbors knew very well, and laughed and 
sneered as the old woman went in and out. 

This, as was natural and right, increased the prejudice 
against Gervaise. Every one said that things could not 
go on much longer, the end was near. 

Amid all this ruin Coupeau thrived surprisingly. Bad 
liquor seemed to affect him agreeably. His appetite was 
good in spite of the amount he drank, and he was growing 
stout. Lantier, however, shook his head, declaring that 
it was not honest flesh, and that he was bloated. But 


L’ASSOMMOIE. 


265 


Coupeau drank all the more after this statement, and was 
rarely or never sober. There began to be a strange blueish 
tone in his complexion. His spirits never flagged. He 
laughed at his wife when she told him of her embarrass- » 
ments. What did he care so long as she provided him 
with food to eat? and the longer he was idle the more 
exacting he became in regard to this food. 

He was ignorant of his wife’s infidelity ; at least, so all 
his friends declared. They believed, moreover, that were 
he to discover it there would be great trouble. But 
Madame Lerat, his own sister, shook her head doubtfully, 
averring that she was not so sure of his ignorance. 

Lantier was also in good health and spirits, neither too 
stout nor too thin. He wished to remain just where he 
was, for he was thoroughly well satisfied with himself, 
and this made him critical in regard to his food, as he had 
made a study of the things he should eat and those he 
should avoid, for the preservation of his figure. Even 
when there was not a cent he asked for eggs and cutlets: 
nourishing and light things were what he required, he said. 
He ruled Gervaise with a rod of iron, grumbled and 
found fault far more than Coupeau ever did. It was a 
house with two masters, one of whom, cleverer by far 
than the other, took the best of everything. He skimmed 
the Coupeaus, as it were, and kept all the cream for him- 
self. He was fond of Nana because he liked girls better 
than boys. He troubled himself little about £tienue. 

When people came and asked for Coupeau, it was 
Lantier who appeared in his shirt-sleeves with the air of 
17 


266 


l’assommoir. 


the man of the house who is needlessly disturbed. He 
answered for Coupeau ; said it was one and the same thing. 

Gervaise did not find this life always very smooth and 
agreeable. She had no reason to complain of her health. 
She had become very stout. But it was hard work to 
provide for and please these two men. When they came 
in, furious and out of temper, it was on her that they 
wreaked their rage. Coupeau abused her frightfully, and 
called her by the coarsest epithets. Lantier, on the con- 
trary, was more select in his phraseology, but his words 
cut her quite as deeply. Fortunately, people become 
accustomed to almost everything in this world ; and Ger- 
vaise soon ceased to care for the reproaches and injustice 
of these two men. She even preferred to have them out 
of temper with her, for then they let her alone in some 
degree; but when they were in a good humor, they were 
all the time at her heels, and she could not find a leisure 
moment even to iron a cap, so constant were the demands 
they made upon her. They wanted her to do this, and do 
that; to cook little dishes for them, and wait upon them 
by inches. 

One night she dreamed she was at the bottom of a well. 
Coupeau was pushing her down with his fists, and Lantier 
was tickling her to make her jump out quicker. And this 
she thought was a very fair picture of her life ! She said 
that the people of the Quartier were very unjust after all, 
when they reproached her for the way of life into which 
she had fallen. It was not her fault. It was not she who 
had done it, and a little shiver ran over her as she refiected 
that perhaps the worst was not yet. 


l’assommoir. 


267 


The utter deterioration of her nature was shown by the 
fact that she detested neither her husband nor Lantier. 
In a play at the Gait6, she had seen a woman hate hei 
husband, and poison him for the sake of her lover. This 
she thought very strange and unnatural. Why could 
the three not have lived together peaceably? It would 
have been much more reasonable ! 

In spite of her debts, in spite of the shifts to which her 
increasing poverty condemned her, Gervaise would have 
considered herself quite well off, but for the exacting 
selfishness of Lantier and Coupeau. 

Toward autumn Lantier became more and more dis- 
gusted ; declared he had nothing to live on but potato- 
parings, and that his health was suffering. He was 
enraged at seeing the house so thoroughly cleared out, and 
he felt that the day was not far off when he must take his 
hat and depart. He had become accustomed to his den, 
and he hated to leave it. He was thoroughly provoked 
that the extravagant habits of Gervaise necessitated this 
sacrifice on his part. Why could she not have shown 
more sense ? He was sure he didn’t know what would be- 
come of them. Could they have struggled on six months 
longer, he could have concluded an affair which would 
have enabled him to support the whole family in comfort. 

One day it came to pass that there was not a mouthful 
in the house, not even a radish. Lantier sat by the stove 
in sombre discontent. Finally he started up and went to 
call on the Poissons, to whom he suddenly became friendly 
to a degree. He no longer taunted the police officer, but 


268 


l’assommoir. 


condescended to admit that the Emperor was a good 
fellow after all. He showed himself especially civil to 
Virginie, whom he considered a clever woman, and well 
able to steer her bark through stormy seas. 

Virginie one day happened to say in his presence that 
she should like to establish herself in some business. He 
approved the plan, and paid her a succession of adroit 
compliments on her capabilities, and cited the example of 
several women he knew, who had made or were making 
their fortunes in this way. 

Virginie had the money, an inheritance from an aunt ; 
but she hesitated, for she did not wish to leave the 
Quarticr, and she did not know of any shop she could 
have. Then Lantier led her into a corner and whispered 
to her for ten minutes : he seemed to be persuading her to 
something. They continued to talk together in this way 
at intervals for several days, seeming to have some secret 
understanding. 

Lantier all this time was fretting and scolding at the 
Coupeaus, asking Gervaise what on earth she intended to 
do, begging her to look things fairly in the face. She 
owed five or six hundred francs to the trades-people about 
her. She was behind-hand with her rent, and Marescot, 
the landlord, threatened to turn her out if they did not pay 
before the first of January. 

The Mont-de-Piete had taken everything; there was 
literally nothing but the nails in the walls left. What 
did she mean to do? 

Gervaise listened to all this at first listlessly, but she 
grew angry at last and cried out: 


l’assommoir. 


269 


“ Look here ! I will go away to-morrow and leave the 
key in the door. I had rather sleep in the gutter than 
live in this way ! ” 

“And I can’t say that it would not be a wise thing for 
you to do ! ” answered Lantier, insidiously. “ I might 
possibly assist you to find some one to take the lease off 
your hands whenever you really conclude to leave the 
shop.” 

“ I am ready to leave it at once ! ” cried Gervaise, 
violently. “ I am sick and tired of it.” 

Then Lantier became serious and business-like. He 
spoke openly of Virginie, who, he said, was looking for a 
shop ; in fact he now remembered having heard her say 
that she should like just such a one as this. 

But Gervaise shrank back, and grew strangely calm at 
this name of Virginie. 

“ She would see,” she said ; “ on the whole she must 
have time to think. People said a great many things 
when they were angry, which on reflection were found not 
to be advisable.” 

Lantier rang the changes on this subject for a week ; 
but Gervaise said she had decided to employ some woman 
and go to work again, and if she were not able to get back 
her old customers she could try for new ones. She said 
this merely to show Lantier that she was not so utterly 
downcast and crushed as he had seemed to take for 
granted was the case. 

He was reckless enough to drop the name of Virginie 
once more, and she turned upon him in a rage. 


270 


l’assommoir. 


“ No, no, never ! ” She had always distrusted Virginie, 
and if she wanted the shop it was only to humiliate her. 
Any other woman might have it, but not this hypocrite, 
who had been waiting for years to gloat over her down- 
fall. No, she understood now only too well the meaning 
of the yellow sparks in her cat’s-eyes. It was clear to 
her that Virginie had never forgotten the scene in the 
JLavatory, and if she did not look out there would be a 
repetition of it. 

Lantier stood aghast at this anger, and this torrent of 
words, but presently he plucked up courage and bade her 
hold her tongue, and told her she should not talk of his 
friends in that way. As for himself he was sick and 
tired of other people’s affairs ; in future he should let them 
all take care of themselves, without a word of counsel 
from him. 

January arrived, cold and damp. Mamma Goupeau 
took to her bed with a violent cold which she expected 
each year at this time. But those about her said she 
would never leave the house again, except feet first. 

Her children had learned to look forward to her death 
as a happy deliverance for all. The physician who came 
once was not sent for again. A little tisane was given her 
from time to time, that she might not feel herself utterly 
neglected. She was just alive, that was all. It now be- 
came a mere question of time with her; but her brain was 
clear still, and in the expression of her eyes there were 
many things to be read — sorrow at seeing no sorrow in 
those she left behind her, and anger against Nana, who was 
utterly indifferent to her. 


l’assommoie. 


271 


One Monday evening Coupeau came in, as tipsy as usual, 
and threw himself on the bed, all dressed. Gervaise in- 
tended to remain with her mother-in-law part of the night, 
but Nana was very brave, and said she should hear if her 
grandmother moved and wanted anything. 

About half-past three Gervaise woke with a start; it 
seemed to her that a cold blast had swept through the 
room. Her candle had burned down, and she hastily 
wrapped a shawl around her with trembling hands, and 
hurried into the next room. Nana was sleeping quietly, 
and her grandmother was dead in the bed at her side. 

Gervaise went to Lantier and waked him. 

“ She is dead,” she said. 

“ Well ! what of it?” he muttered, half asleep. “Why 
don’t you go to sleep?” 

She turned away in silence, while he grumbled at her 
coming to disturb him, by the intelligence of a death in 
the house. 

Gervaise dressed herself, not without tears, for she 
really loved the cross old woman whose son lay in the 
heavy slumbers of intoxication. 

When she went back to the room, she found Nana 
sitting up and rubbing her eyes. The child realized what 
had come to pass, and trembled nervously in the face of 
this death of which she had thought much in the last two 
days, as of something which was hidden from children. 

“ Get up!” said her mother, in a low voice. “ I do not 
wish you to stay here.” 

The child slipped from her bed slowly and regretfully, 


272 


l’assommois. 


with her eyes fixed on the dead body of her grand- 
mother. 

Gervaise did not know what to do with her, nor where 
to send her. At this moment Lantier appeared at the 
door. He had dressed himself, impelled by a little shame 
at his own conduct. 

“Let the child go into my room," he said, “and I will 
help you." 

Nana looked first at her mother and then at Lantier, 
and then trotted with her little bare feet into the next 
room and slipped into the bed that was still warm. 

She lay there wide awake, with blazing cheeks and eyes, 
and seemed to be absorbed in thought. 

While Lantier and Gervaise were silently occupied with 
the dead, Coupeau lay anti snored. 

Gervaise hunted in a bureau to find a little crucifix 
which she had brought from Plassans, when she suddenly 
remembered that Mamma Coupeau had sold it. They 
each took a glass of wine, and sat by the stove until day- 
break. 

About seven o’clock Coupeau woke. When he heard 
what had happened, he declared they were jesting. But 
when he saw the body he fell on his knees and wept like 
a baby. Gervaise was touched by these tears, and found 
her heart softer toward her husband than it had been for 
many a long year. 

“ Courage, old friend ! ” said Lantier, pouring out a 
glass of wine as he spoke. 

Coupeau took some wine, but he continued to weep, and 


l’assommoie. 


273 


Lantier went off under pretext of informing the family, 
but he did not hurry. He walked along slowly, smoking 
a cigar, and after he had been to Madame Lerat’s, he 
stopped in at a cremerie to take a cup of coffee, and there 
he sat for an hour or more in deep thought. 

By nine o’clock the family were assembled in the shop, 
whose shutters had not been taken down. Lorilleux only 
remained for a few moments, and then went back to his 
shop. Madame Lorilleux shed a few tears, and then sent 
Nana to buy a pound of candles. 

“How like Gervaise!” she murmured. “She can do 
nothing in a proper way!” 

Madame Lerat went about among the neighbors to bor- 
row a crucifix. She brought one so large that when it was 
laid on the breast of Mamma Coupeau the weight seemed 
to crush her. 

Then some one said something about holy water, so 
Nana was sent to the church with a bottle. The room 
assumed a new aspect. On a small table burned a candle, 
near it a glass of holy water in which was a branch of box. 

“ Everything is in order,” murmured the sisters ; “ people 
can come now as soon as they please.” 

Lantier made his appearance about eleven. He had 
been to make inquiries in regard to funeral expenses. 

“The coffin,” he said, “is twelve francs, and if you 
want a mass, ten francs more. A hearse is paid for, 
according to its ornaments.” 

“ You must remember,” said Madame Lorilleux, with 
compressed lips, “that Mamma must be buried according 
to her purse.” 


274 


l’assommoir. 


“ Precisely !” answered Lantier. “ I only tell you this 
as your guide. Decide what you want, and after break- 
fast I will go and attend to it all.” 

He spoke in a low voice, oppressed by the presence of 
the dead. The children were laughing in the court-yard, 
and Nana singing loudly. 

Gervaise said, gently : 

“ We are not rich, to be sure, but we wish to do what 
she would have liked. If Mamma Coupeau has left us 
nothing, it was not her fault, and no reason why we should 
bury her as if she were a dog. No, there must be a Mass 
and a hearse.” 

“And who will pay for it?” asked Madame Lorilleux. 
“We can’t, for we lost much money last week, and I am 
quite sure you would find it hard work ! ” 

Coupeau, when he was consulted, shrugged his shoul- 
ders with a gesture of profound indifference. Madame 
Lerat said she would pay her share. 

“There are three of us,” said Gervaise, after a long 
calculation ; “ if we each pay thirty francs we can do it 
with decency.” 

But Madame Lorilleux burst out furiously : 

“I will never consent to such folly. It is not that I 
care for the money, but I disapprove of the ostentation. 
You can do as you please.” 

“Very well,” replied Gervaise, “I will. I have taken 
care of your mother while she was living, I can bury her 
now that she is dead.” 

Then Madame Lorilleux fell to crying, and Lantier had 


l’assommoir. 


275 


great trouble in preventing her from going away at once, 
and the quarrel grew so violent, that Madame Lerat hastily 
closed the door of the room where the dead woman lay, 
as if she feared the noise would awaken her. The chil- 
dren’s voices rose shrill in the air with Nana’s perpetual 
“ Tra-la-la ” above all the rest. 

“ Heavens ! how wearisome those children are with their 
songs,” said Lantier. “ Tell them to be quiet, and make 
Nana come in and sit down.” 

Gervaise obeyed these dictatorial orders, while her 
sisters-in-law went home to breakfast, while the Coupeaus 
tried to eat, but they were made uncomfortable by the 
presence of Death in their crowded quarters. The details 
of their daily life were disarranged. 

Gervaise went to Goujet and borrowed sixty francs, 
which, added to thirty from Madame Lerat, would pay 
the expenses of the funeral. In the afternoon several 
persons came in and looked at the dead woman, crossing 
themselves as they did so, and shaking Holy Water over the 
body with the branch of box. They then took their seats 
in the shop and talked of the poor thing and of her many 
virtues. One said she had talked with her only three 
days before, and another asked if it were not possible it 
was a trance. 

By evening the Coupeaus felt it was more than they 
could bear. It was a mistake to keep a body so long. 
One has, after all, only so many tears to shed, and that 
done, grief turns to worry. Mamma Coupeau — stiff 
and cold — was a terrible weight on them all. They 


276 l’assommoie. 

gradually lost the sense of oppression however, and spoke 
louder. 

After a while Monsieur Marescot appeared. He went 
to the inner room and knelt at the side of the corpse. He 
was very religious, they saw. He made a sign of the 
cross in the air and dipped the branch into the holy water 
and sprinkled the body. Monsieur Marescot having fin- 
ished his devotions, passed out into the shop and said to 
Coupeau : 

“ I came for the two quarters that are due. Have you 
got the money for me?” 

“ No, sir ; not entirely,” said Gervaise, coming forward, 
excessively annoyed at this scene taking place in the 
presence of her sisters-in-law. “ You see, this trouble 
came upon us — ” 

“Undoubtedly,” answered her landlord; “but we all 
of us have our troubles. I cannot wait any longer. I 
really must have the money. If I am not paid by to- 
morrow I shall most assuredly take immediate measures 
to turn you out.” 

Gervaise clasped her hands imploringly, but he shook 
his head, saying that discussion was useless ; besides, just 
then it would be a disrespect to the dead. 

“A thousand pardons !” he said, as he went out. “ But 
remember that I must have the money to-morrow.” 

And as he passed the open door of the lighted room, 
he saluted the corpse with another genuflection. 

After he had gone, the ladies gathered around the stove, 
where a great pot of coffee stood, enough to keep them 


l’assommoie. 


277 


all awake, for the whole night. The Poissons arrived 
about eight o’clock; then Lantier, carefully watching 
Gervaise, began to speak of the disgraceful act committed 
by the landlord in coming to a house to collect money at 
such a time. 

“ He is a thorough hypocrite,” continued Lantier; “and 
were I in Madame Coupeau’s place, I would walk off aud 
leave his house on his hands.” 

Gervaise heard, but did not seem to heed 

The Lorilleux, delighted at the idea that she would 
lose her shop, declared that Lantier’s idea was an excellent 
one. They gave Coupeau a push and repeated it to him. 

Gervaise seemed to be disposed to yield ; and then Vir- 
ginie spoke in the blandest of tones. 

“ I will take the lease off your hands,” she said, “ and 
will arrange the back rent with your landlord.” 

“No! no! thank you,” cried Gervaise, shaking off the 
lethargy in which she had been wrapped. “ I can man- 
age this matter, and I can work. No, no, I say.” 

Lantier interposed and said, soothingly: 

“ Never mind ! we will talk of it another time — to- 
morrow, possibly.” 

The family were to sit up all night. Nana cried vocifer- 
ously when she was sent into the Boche quarters to sleep ; 
the Poissons remained until midnight. Virginie began to 
talk of the country : she would like to be buried under a 
tree, with flowers and grass on her grave. Madame Lerat 
6aid, that in her wardrobe — folded up in lavender — was 
the linen sheet in which her body was to be wrapped. 


278 


l’assommoir. 


When the Poissons went away Lantier accompanied 
them, in order, he said, to leave his bed for the ladies, who 
could take turns in sleeping there. But the ladies pre- 
ferred to remain together about the stove. 

Madame Lorilleux said she had no black dress, and it 
was too bad that she must buy one, for they were sadly 
pinched just at this time. And she asked Gervaise if she 
was sure that her mother had not a black skirt which 
would do, one that had been given her on her birthday. 
Gervaise went for the skirt. Yes, it would do if it were 
taken in at the waist. 

Then Madame Lorilleux looked at the bed and the 
wardrobe, and asked if there was nothing else belonging 
to her mother. 

Here Madame Lerat interfered. The Coupeaus, she 
said, had taken care of her mother, and they were entitled 
to all the trifles she had left. The night seemed endless. 
They drank coffee, and they went by turns to look at the 
body, lying silent and calm under the flickering light of 
the candle. 

The interment was to take place at half-past ten, but 
Gervaise would gladly have given a hundred francs, if 
she had had them, to any one who would have taken 
Mamma Coupeau away three hours before the time fixed. 

“Ah ! ” she said to herself, “ it is no use to disguise the 
fact: people are very much in the way after they are 
dead, no matter how much you have loved them ! ” 

Father Bazonge, who was never known to be sober, 
appeared with the coffin and the pall. When he saw 
Gervaise he stood with his eyes starting from his head. 


l’assommoir. 279 

“ I beg your pardon/’ he said, “ but I thought it was 
for you ; ” and he was turning to go away. 

“ Leave the coffin ! ” cried Gervaise, growing very pale. 

Bazonge began to apologize : 

“ I heard them talking yesterday, but I did not pay 
much attention. I congratulate you that you are still 
alive. Though why I do, I do not know, for life is not 
such a very agreeable thing.” 

Gervaise listened with a shiver of horror, and a morbid 
dread that he would take her away and shut her up in 
his box and bury her. She had once heard him say that 
he knew many a woman who would be only too thankful 
if he would do exactly that. 

“ He is horribly drunk,” she murmured, in a tone of 
mingled disgust and terror. 

“ I will come for you another time,” he said, with a 
laugh ; “you have only to make me a little sign. I am a 
great consolation to women sometimes; and you need not 
sneer at poor Father Bazonge, for he has held many a fine 
lady in his arms, and they made no complaint when he laid 
them down to sleep in the shade of the evergreens.” 

“ Do hold your tongue,” said Lorilleux ; “ this is no time 
for such talk. Be off with you !” 

The clock struck ten. The friends and neighbors had 
assembled in the shop, while the family were in the back 
room, nervous and feverish with suspense. 

Four men appeared — the undertaker, Bazonge, and his 
three assistants placed the body in the coffin. Bazonge 
held the screws in his mouth and waited for the family to 
take their last farewell. 


280 


l’assommoir. 


Then Coupeau, his two sisters and Gervaise kissed their 
mother, and their tears fell fast on her cold face. The lid 
was put on and fastened down. 

The hearse was at the door, to the great edification of 
the trades-people of the neighborhood, who said under 
their breath that the Coupeaus had best pay their debts. 

“It is shameful,” Gervaise was saying at the same 
moment, speaking of the Lorilleux. “ These people have 
not even brought a bouquet of violets for their mother.” 

It was true they had come empty-handed — while 
Madame Lerat had brought a wreath of artificial flowers 
which was laid on the bier. 

Coupeau and Lorilleux, with their hats in their hands, 
walked at the head of the procession of men. After them 
followed the ladies, headed by Madame Lorilleux, in her 
black skirt — wrenched from the dead — her sister trying to 
cover a purple dress with a large black shawl. 

Gervaise had lingered behind to close the shop and give 
Nana into the charge of Madame Boche, and then ran to 
overtake the procession, while the little girl stood with the 
Concierge, profoundly interested in seeing her grand- 
mother carried away in that beautiful carriage. 

Just as Gervaise joined the procession, Goujet came up a 
side street and saluted her witli a slight bow and with a faint, 
sweet smile. The tears rushed to her eyes. She did not 
weep for Mamma Coupeau, but rather for herself; but her 
sisters-in-law looked at her as if she were the greatest 
hypocrite in the world. 

At the church the ceremony was of short duration. The 
Mass dragged a little because the priest was very old. 


l’assommoir. 


281 


The cemetery was not far off, and the cortege soon 
reached it. A priest came out of a house near by, and 
shivered as he saw his breath rise with each De Profundis 
he uttered. , 

The coffin was lowered, and as the frozen earth fell 
upon it, more tears were shed, accompanied, however, by 
sighs of relief. 

The procession dispersed outside the gates of the ceme- 
tery, and at the very first cabaret Coupeau turned in, 
leaving Gervaise alone on the sidewalk. She beckoned to 
Goujet, who was turning the corner. 

“ I want to speak to you,” she said, timidly. “ I want 
to tell you how ashamed I am for coming to you again to 
borrow money, but I was at my wit’s end.” 

“I am always glad to be of use to you,” answered the 
blacksmith. “ But pray never allude to the matter before 
my mother, for I do not wish to trouble her. She and I 
think differently on many subjects.” 

She looked at him sadly and earnestly. Through her 
mind flitted a vague regret that she had not done as he 
desired, that she had not gone away with him somewhere. 
Then a vile temptation assailed her. She trembled. 

“ You are not angry now ? ” she said, entreatingly. 

“No, not angry, but still heart-sick. All is over 
between us now and forever.” And he walked off with 
long strides, leaving Gervaise stunned by his words. 

“All is over between us ! ” she kept saying to herself, 
* and what more is there for me then in life!” 

She sat down in her empty, desolate room, and drank a 
18 


282 


l’assom moir. 


large tumbler of wine. When the others came in, she 

,o ' 

looked up suddenly, and said to Virginie, gently : 

“If you want the shop, take it ! ” 

Virginie and her husband jumped at this, and sent for 
t ie Concierge, who consented to the arrangement on con- 
dition that the new tenants would become security for the 
two quarters then due. 

This was agreed upon. The Coupeaus would take a 
room on the sixth floor, near the Lorilleux. Lantier said 
politely, that if it would not be disagreeable to the 
Poissons, he should like much to retain his present 
quarters. 

The policeman bowed stiffly, but with every intention 
of being cordial — and said he decidedly approved of the 
idea. 

Then Lantier withdrew from the discussion entirely, 
watching Gervaise and Virginie out of the corners of 
his eye. 

That evening when Gervaise was alone again, she felt 
utterly exhausted. The place looked twice its usual size. 
It seemed to her that in leaving Mamma Coupeau in the 
quiet cemetery, she had also left much that was precious to 
her, a portion of her own life, her pride in her shop, her 
hopes and her energy. These were not all either that she 
had buried that day. Her heart was as bare and empty 
as her walls and her home. She was too weary to try 
and analyze her sensations, but moved about as if in a 
dream. 

At ten o’clock, when Nana was undressed, she wept, 


l’assommoik. 


283 


begging that she might be allowed to sleep in her grand- 
mother’s bed. Her mother vaguely wondered that the 
child was not afraid, and allowed her to do as she pleased. 

Nana was not timid by nature, and only her curiosity, 
not her fears, had been excited by the events of the last 
three days, and she curled herself up with delight in the 
soft, warm, feather bed. 


284 


l’assommoie. 


CHAPTER X, 


DISASTERS AND CHANGES, 


HE new lodging of the Coupeaus was next that of 



-L the Bijards. Almost opposite their door was a 
closet under the stairs which went up to the roof — a mere 
hole without light or ventilation, where Father Bru slept. 

A chamber and a small room, about as large as one’s 
hand, were all the Coupeaus had now. Nana’s little bed 
stood in the small room, the door of which had to be 
left open at night, lest the child should stifle. 

When it came to the final move, Gervaise felt that she 
could not separate from the commode which she had 
spent so much time in polishing when first married, and 
insisted on its going to their new quarters, where it was 
much in the way and stopped up half the window ; and 
when Gervaise wished to look out into the court, she had 
not room for her elbows. 

The first few days she spent in tears. She felt smoth- 
ered and cramped ; after having had so much room to 
move about in it seemed to her that she was smothering. 
It was only at the window she could breathe. The court- 
yard was not a place calculated to inspire cheerful 
thoughts. Opposite her was the window which years 
before had elicited her admiration, where every successive 
summer, scarlet beans had grown to a fabulous height on 


l’assommoir. 


285 


slender strings. Her room was on the shady side, and a 
pot of mignonette would die in a week on her sill. 

No, life had not been what she hoped, and it was all 
very hard to bear. 

Instead of flowers to solace her declining years, she 
would have but thorns. One day, as she was looking 
down into the court, she had the strangest feeling imagi- 
nable. She seemed to see herself standing just near the 
loge of the Concierge, looking up at the house and exami- 
ning it for the first time. 

This glimpse of the Past made her feel faint. It was at 
least thirteen years since she had first seen this huge build- 
ing — this world within a world. The court had not 
changed. The fagade was simply more dingy. The same 
clothes seemed to be hanging at the windows to dry. 
Below, there were the shavings from the cabinet-maker’s 
shop, and the gutter glittered with blue water, as blue 
and soft in tone as the water she remembered. 

But she ! Alas ! how changed was she ! She no longer 
looked up to the sky. She was no longer hopeful, cour- 
ageous and ambitious. She was living under the very roof 
in crowded discomfort, where never a ray of sunshine 
could reach her, and her tears fell fast in utter discourage- 
ment. 

Nevertheless, when Gervaise became accustomed to her 
new surroundings, she grew more content. The pieces of 
furniture she had sold to Virginie had facilitated her 
installation. When the fine weather came, Coupeau had 
an opportunity of going into the country to work. He 


286 


l’assommoir. 


went and lived three months without drinking — cured for 
the time being, by the fresh, pure air. It does a man 
sometimes an infinite deal of good to be taken away from 
all his old haunts, and from Parisian streets, which always 
seem to exhale a smell of brandy and of wine^ 

He came back as fresh as a rose, and he brought four 
hundred francs, with which he paid the Poissons the 
amount for which they had become security, as well as 
several other small but pressing debts. Gervaise had now 
two or three streets open to her again, which for some time 
she had not dared to enter. 

She now went out to iron by the day, and had gone 
back to her old mistress, Madame Fauconnier, who was a 
kind-hearted creature, and ready to do anything for any 
one who flattered her adroitly. 

With diligence and economy Gervaise could have man- 
aged to live comfortably and pay all her debts; but this 
prospect did not charm her particularly. She suffered 
acutely in seeing the Poissons in her old shop. She was 
by no means of a jealous or envious disposition, but it was 
not agreeable to her to hear the admiration expressed for 
her successors by her husband’s sisters. To hear them, 
one would suppose that never had so beautiful a shop been 
seen before. They spoke of the filthy condition of the 
place when Virginie moved in — who had paid, they 
declared, thirty francs for cleaning it. 

Virginie, after some hesitation, had decided on a small 
stock of groceries — sugar, tea, and coffee; also bonbons 
and chocolate. Lantier had advised these because he said 


L ASSOMMOIR. 


287 


the profit on them was immense. The shop was repainted, 
and shelves and cases were put in, and a counter with 
scales such as are seen at confectioners’. The little inheri- 
tance that Poisson held in reserve was seriously encroached 
upon. But Virginie was triumphant, for she had her 
way, and the Lorilleux did not spare Gervaise the descrip- 
tion of a case or a jar. 

It was said in the street that Lantier had deserted Ger- 
vaise — that she gave him no peace running after him; but 
this was not true, for he went and came to her apartment 
as he pleased. Scandal was connecting his name and 
Virginie’s. They said Virginie had taken the clear- 
starcher’s lover as well as her shop! The Lorilleux talked 
of nothing when Gervaise was present but Lantier, Vir- 
ginie and the shop. Fortunately, Gervaise was not 
inclined to jealousy, and Lantier’s infidelities had hitherto 
left her undisturbed; but she did not accept this new 
affair with equal tranquillity. She colored or turned pale 
as she heard these allusions, but she would not allow a 
word to pass her lips, as she was fully determined never 
to gratify her enemies by allowing them to see her discom- 
fiture; but a dispute was heard by the neighbors about this 
time between herself and Lantier, who went angrily away, 
and was not seen *by any one in the Coupeau quarters for 
more than a fortnight. 

Coupeau behaved very oddly. This blind and com- 
placent husband, who had closed his eyes to all that was 
going on at home, was filled with virtuous indignation at 
Poisson’s indifference. Then Coupeau went so far as to 


288 


l’assommoir. 


tease Gervaise in regard to this desertion of her lovers. 
She had had bad luck, he said, with hatters and black- 
smiths — why did she not try a mason? 

He said this as if it were a joke, but Gervaise had a firm 
conviction that he was in deadly earnest. A man who is 
tipsy from one year’s end to the next is not apt to be 
fastidious ; and there are husbands who at twenty are very 
jealous, and at thirty have grown very complacent, under 
the influence of constant tippling. 

Lantier preserved an attitude of calm indifference. He 
kept the peace between the Poissons and the Coupeaus. 
Thanks to him, Virginie and Gervaise affected for each 
other the most tender regard. He ruled the brunette as 
he had ruled the blonde, and he would swallow her shop as 
he had that of Gervaise. 

It was in June of this year that Nana partook of her 
first communion. She was about thirteen, slender and tall 
as an asparagus plant; and her air and manner was the 
height of impertinence and audacity. 

She had been sent away from the catechism class the 
year before on account of her bad conduct. And if the 
Cur6 did not make a similar objection this year, it was 
because he feared she would never come again, and that 
his refusal would launch on the Parisian pave another 
castaway. 

Nana danced with joy at the mere thought of what 
the Lorilleux — as her god-parents — had promised, while 
Madame Lerat gave the veil and cup, Virginie the purse, 
and Lantier a prayer-book ; so that the Coupeaus looked 
forward to the day without anxiety. 


l’assommoib. 


289 


The Poissons — probably through Lan tier’s advice — 
selected this occasion for their house-warming. They 
invited the Coupeau and the Boche family, as Pauline 
made her first communion on that day, as well as Nana. 

The evening before, while Nana stood in an ecstacy of 
delight before her presents, her father came in, in an 
abominable condition. His virtuous resolutions had 
yielded to the air of Paris, he had fallen into evil ways 
again, and he now assailed his wife and child with the 
vilest epithets, which did not seem to shock Nana, for they 
could fall from her tongue on occasion, with facile glib- 
ness. 

“I want my soup,” cried Coupeau, “and you two fools 
are chattering over those fal-lals ! I tell you I will sit on 
them if I am not waited upon, and quickly too.” 

Gervaise answered impatiently, but Nana, who thought 
it better taste just then — all things considered — to receive 
with meekness all her father’s abuse, dropped her eyes and 
did not reply. 

“Take that rubbish away!” he cried, with growing 
impatience, “ put it out of my sight, or I will tear it to 
bits.” 

Nana did not seem to hear him. She took up the tulle- 
cap and asked her mother what it cost, and when Cou- 
peau tried to snatch the cap, Gervaise pushed him away. 

“Let the child alone!” she said, “she is doing no 
harm ! ” 

Then her husband went into a perfect rage : 

“Mother and daughter!” he cried, “a nice pair they 


290 


l’assommoir. 


make. I understand very well what all this row is for: 
it is merely to show yourself in a new gown. I will put 
you in a bag and tie it close round your throat, and you 
will see if the Cur6 likes that!” 

Nana turned like lightning to protect her treasures. 
She looked her father full in the face, and, forgetting the 
lessons taught her by her priest, she said, in a low, con- 
centrated voice : 

“ Beast ! ” That was all. 

After Coupeau had eaten his soup he fell asleep, and in 
the morning woke quite amiable. He admired his daugh- 
ter, and said she looked quite like a young lady in her 
white robe. Then he added, with a sentimental air, that 
a father on such days was naturally proud of his child. 
When they were ready to go to the church, and Nana met 
Pauline in the corridor, she examined the latter from head 
to foot, and smiled condescendingly on seeing that Pauline 
had not a particle of chic. 

The two families started off together, Nana and Pau- 
line in front, each with her prayer-book in one hand and 
with the other holding down her veil which swelled in the 
wind like a sail. They did not speak to each other, but 
keenly enjoyed seeing the shopkeepers run to their doors 
to see them — keeping their eyes cast down devoutly, but 
their ears wide open to any compliment they might hear. 

Nana’s two aunts walked side by side, exchanging their 
opinions in regard to Gervaise, whom they stigmatized as 
an irreligious ne’er-do-well, whose child would never have 
gone to the Holy Communion if it had depended on her. 


l’assommoir. 


291 


At the church Coupeau wept all the time. It was very 
silly, he knew, but he could not help it. The voice of 
the Cur6 was pathetic ; the little girls looked like white- 
robed angels; the organ thrilled him, and the incense 
gratified his senses. There was one especial anthem 
which touched him deeply. He was not the only 
person who wept, he was glad to see, and when the cere- 
mony was over, he left the church feeling that it was the 
happiest day of his life. But an hour later he quarrelled 
with Lorilleux in a wine-shop because the latter was so 
hard-hearted. 

The house-warming at the Poissons that night was very 
gay. Lantier sat between Gervaise and Virginie, and 
was equally civil and attentive to both. Opposite was 
Poisson with his calm, impassive face, a look he had cul- 
tivated since he began his career as a police officer. 

But the Queens of the F6te were the two little girls, 
Nana and Pauline, who sat very erect lest they should 
crush and deface their pretty white dresses. At dessert 
there was a serious discussion in regard to the Future 
of the children. Madame Boche said that Pauline would 
at once enter a certain manufactory, where she would 
receive five or six francs per week. Gervaise had not 
decided yet, for Nana had shown no esp*eial leaning in 
any direction. She had a good deal of taste, but she was 
butter-fingered and careless. 

“ I should make a florist of her,” said Madame Lerat. 
u It is clean work, and pretty work, too.” 

Whereupon ensued a warm discussion. The men were 


292 


l’assommoir. 


especially careful of their language out of deference t* the 
little girls, but Madame Lerat would not accept the 
lesson : she flattered herself she could say what she pleased 
in such a way, that it could not offend the most fastidious 
ears. 

“ Women,” she declared, “ who followed her trade were 
more virtuous than others. They rarely made a slip.” 

“ I have no objection to your trade,” interrupted Gei> 
vaise. “If Nana likes to make flowers let her do so. 
Say, Nana, would you like it ? ” 

The little girl did not look up from her plate, into 
which she was dipping a crust of bread. She smiled 
faintly as she replied : 

“Yes, mamma; if you desire it, I have no objection.” 

The decision was instantly made, and Coupeau wished 
his sister to take her the very next day to the place where 
she herself worked — Rue du Caire ; and the circle talked 
gravely of the duties of life. Boche said that Pauline 
and Nana were now women, since they had been to Com- 
munion, and they ought to be serious, and learn to cook 
and to mend. They alluded to their future marriages, 
their homes and their children, and the girls touched 
each other under the table, giggled and grew very red. 
Lantier asked them if they did not have little husbands 
already, and Nana blushingly confessed that she loved 
Victor Fauconnier, and never meant to marry any one 
else. 

Madame Lorilleux said to Madame Boche on their waj? 
home : 


l’assommoie. 


293 


“ Nana is our goddaughter now, but if she goes into 
that flower business, in six months she will be on the pav6, 
and we will have nothing to do with her.” 

Gervaise told Boche that she thought the shop admi- 
rably arranged. She had looked forward to an evening 
of torture, and was surprised that she had not experienced 
a pang. 

Nana, as she undressed, asked her mother if the girl on 
the next floor, who had been married the week before, 
wore a dress of muslin like hers. 

But this was the last bright day in that household. 
Two years passed away, and their prospects grew darker 
and their demoralization and degradation more evident. 
They went without food and without fire, but never with- 
out brandy. 

They found it almost impossible to meet their rent, and 
a certain January came when they had not a penny, and 
Father Boche ordered them to leave. 

It was frightfully cold, with a sharp wind blowing 
from the north. 

Monsieur Marescot appeared in a warm overcoat, and 
his hands encased in warm woollen gloves, and told them 
they must go even if they slept in the gutter. The whole 
house was oppressed with woe, and a dreary sound of 
lamentation arose from most of the rooms, for half the 
tenants were behind-hand. Gervaise sold her bed and paid 
the rent. Nana made nothing as yet, and Gervaise had 
so fallen off in her work that Madame Fauconnier had 
reduced her wages. She was irregular in her hours, and 


294 


l’assommoie. 


often absented herself from tire shop for several days 
together, but was none the less vexed to discover that her 
old employee, Madame Putois, had been placed above 
her. Naturally, at the end of the week, Gervaise had 
little money coming to her. 

As to Coupeau, if he worked, he brought no money 
home, and his wife had ceased to count upon it. Some- 
times he declared he had lost it, through a hole in his 
pocket, or it had been stolen ; but after a while he ceased 
to make any excuses. 

But if he had no cash in his pockets it was because he 
had spent it all in drink. Madame Boche advised Ger- 
vaise to watch for him at the door of the place where he 
was employed and get his wages from him before he had 
spent them all; but this did no good, as Coupeau was 
warned by his friends and escaped by a rear door. 

The Coupeaus were entirely to blame for their mis- 
fortunes, but this is just what people will never admit. It 
is always ill-luck, or the cruelty of God, or anything in 
short save the legitimate result of their own vices. 

Gervaise now quarrelled with her husband incessantly. 
The warmth of affection of husband and wife, of parents 
for their children, and children for their parents had fled, 
and left them all shivering, each apart from the other. 

All three, Coupeau, Gervaise and Nana watched each 
other with eyes of baleful hate. It seemed as if some 
spring had broken — the great main-spring that binds 
families together. 

Gervaise did not shudder when she saw her husband 


l’assommoir, 


295 


lying drunk in the gutter. She would not have pushed 
him in, to be sure; but if he were out of the way it would 
be a good thing for everybody. She even went so far as 
to say one day, in a fit of rage, that she should be glad to 
see him brought home on a shutter. Of what good was 
he to any human being? He ate, and he drank, and he 
slept. His child learned to hate him, and she read the 
accidents in the papers with the feelings of an unnatural 
daughter. What a pity it was that her father had not 
been the man who was killed when that omnibus tipped 
over ! 

In addition to her own sorrows and privations, Ger- 
vaise, whose heart was not yet altogether hard, was con- 
demned to hear now of the sufferings of others. The 
corner of the house in which she lived seemed to be 
consecrated to those who were as poor as herself. No 
smell of cooking filled the air, which, on the contrary, was 
laden with the shrill cries of hungry children — heavy with 
the sighs of weary, heart-broken mothers, and with the 
oaths of drunken husbands and fathers. 

Gervaise pitied Father Bru from the bottom of her 
heart; he lay the greater part of the time rolled up in 
the straw in his den under the staircase leading to the 
roof. When two or three days elapsed without his 
showing himself, some one opened the door and looked in, 
to see if he were still alive. 

Yes, he was living; that is, he was not dead. When 
Gervaise had bread she always remembered him. If she 
had learned to hate men because of her husband, her heart 


296 


l’assommoir. 


was still tender toward animals, and Father Bru seemed 
like one to her. She regarded him as a faithful old dog. 
Her heart was heavy within her, whenever she thought 
of him, alone — abandoned by God and man — dying by 
inches — or drying rather, as an orange dries on the 
chimney piece. 

Gervaise was also troubled by the vicinity of the under- 
taker Bazonge — a wooden partition alone separated their 
rooms. When he came in at night she could hear him 
throw down his glazed hat, which fell, with a dull thud 
like a shovelful of clay, on the table. The black cloak 
hung against the wall rustled like the wings of some huge 
bird of prey. She could hear his every movement, and 
she spent most of her time listening to him with morbid 
horror, while he — all unconscious — hummed his vulgar 
songs and tipsily staggered to his bed, under which the 
poor woman’s sick fancy pictured a dead body concealed. 

She had read in some paper a dismal tale of some 
undertaker who took home with him coffin after coffin — 
children’s coffins — in order to make one trip to the cemetery 
suffice. When she heard his step, the whole corridor 
was pervaded to her senses with the odor of dead 
humanity. 

She would as lief have resided at PSre La Chaise and 
watched the moles at their work. The man terrified her; 
his incessant laughter dismayed her. She talked of 
moving, but at the same time was reluctant to do so, for 
there was a strange fascination about Bazonge after all. 
Had he not told her once that he would come for her and 


i/assommoir. 297 

lay her down to sleep in the shadow of waving branches, 
where she would know neither hunger nor toil? 

She wished she could try it for a month. And she 
thought how delicious it would be in midwinter, just at 
the time her quarter’s rent was due. But alas ! this was 
not possible. The rest and the sleep must be Eternal . 
this thought chilled her, and her longing for Death faded 
away before the unrelenting severity of the bonds exacted 
by Mother Earth. 

One night she was sick and feverish, and instead of 
throwing herself out of the window as she was tempted 
to do, she rapped on the partition and called loudly — 

“ Father Bazonge ! Father Bazonge ! ” 

The undertaker was kicking off his slippers, singing a 
vulgar song as he did so. 

“ What is the matter ? ” he answered. 

But at his voice Gervaise awoke as from a nightmare. 
What had she done ? Had she really tapped ? she asked 
herself, and she recoiled from his side of the wall in chill 
horror. It seemed to her that she felt the undertaker’s 
hands on her head. No ! No ! She was not ready. She 
told herself that she had not intended to call him. It 
was her elbow that had knocked the wall accidentally, 
and she shivered from head to foot at the idea of being 
carried away in this man’s arms. 

“ What is the matter ?” repeated Bazonge. “ Can I serve 
you in any way, Madame ? ” 

“ No ! No ! It is nothing ! ” answered the laundress, 
in a choked voice. “ I am very much obliged.” 

19 


298 


l’assommoir. 


While the undertaker slept she lay wide awake, holding 
her breath and not daring to move, lest he should think 
she called him again. 

She said to herself that under no circumstances would 
she ever appeal to him for assistance, and she said this over 
and over again with the vain hope of reassuring herself, 
for she was by no means at ease in her mind. 

Gervaise had before her a noble example of courage and 
fortitude in the Bijard family. Little Lalie, that tiny 
child — about as big as a pinch of salt — swept and kept her 
room like wax ; she watched over the two younger chil- 
dren with all the care and patience of a mother. This she 
had done since her father had kicked her mother to death. 
She had entirely assumed that mother’s place, even to receiv- 
ing the blows which had fallen formerly on that poor 
woman. It seemed to be a necessity of his nature that 
when he came home drunk he must have some woman td 
abuse. Lalie was too small, he grumbled ; one blow of 
his fist covered her whole face, and her skin was so deli- 
cate that the marks of his five fingers would remain on her 
cheek for days ! 

He would fly at her like a wolf at a poor little kitten, 
for the merest trifle. Lalie never answered, never rebelled, 
and never complained. She merely tried to shield her face, 
and suppressed all shrieks, lest the neighbors should come; 
her pride could not endure that. When her father was 
tired kicking her about the room, she lay where he left 
her until she had strength to rise, and then she went 
steadily about her work, washing the children and making 


l’assommoir. 


299 


her soup, sweeping and dusting, until everything w r as 
clean. It was a part of her plan of life to be beaten 
every day. 

Gervaise had conceived a strong affection for this little 
neighbor. She treated her like a woman who knew some- 
thing of life. It must be admitted that Lalie was large 
for her years. She was fair and pale, with solemn eyes 
and a delicate mouth. To have heard her talk, one would 
have thought her thirty. She could make and mend, and 
she talked of the children as if she had herself brought 
them into the world. She made people laugh sometimes 
when she talked, but more often she brought tears to 
their eyes. 

Gervaise did everything she could for her; gave her 
what she could, and helped the energetic little soul with 
her work. One day she was altering a dress of Nana’s for 
her, and when the child tried it on, Gervaise was chilled 
with horror at seeing her whole back purple and bruised — 
the tiny arm bleeding — all the innocent flesh of childhood 
martyrized by the brute — her father. 

Bazonge might get the coffin ready, she thought, for the 
little girl could not bear this long. But Lalie entreated 
her friend to say nothing, telling her that her father did 
not know what he was doing ; that he had been drinking. 
She forgave him with her whole heart — for madmen must 
not be held accountable for their deeds. After that, Ger- 
vaise was on the watch whenever she heard Bijard coming 
up the stairs. But she never caught him in any act of 
absolute brutality. Several times she had found Lali« 


300 


l’assommoie. 

tied to the foot of the bedstead — an idea that had entered 
her father’s brain, no one knew why — a whim of his 
disordered brain — disordered by liquor — which probably 
arose from his wish to tyrannize over the child, even when 
he was no longer there. 

Lalie sometimes was left there all day, and once all 
night. When Gervaise insisted on untying her, the child 
entreated her not to touch the knots, saying that her father 
would be furious if he found the knots had been tampered 
with. 

“And really,” she said, with an angelic smile, “she 
needed rest ; and the only thing that troubled her was not 
to be able to put the room in order. She could watch the 
children just as well — and she could think — so that her 
time was not entirely lost.” When her father let her free, 
her sufferings were not over, for it was sometimes more 
than an hour before she could stand — before the blood 
circulated freely in her stiffened limbs. 

Her father had invented another cheerful game. He 
heated some sous red-hot on the stove, and laid them on 
the chimney-piece. He then summoned Lalie and bade 
her go buy some bread. The child unsuspiciously took up 
the sous, uttered a little shriek, and dropped them, shaking 
her poor burned fingers ! 

Then he would go off in a rage. What did she mean 
by such nonsense? She had thrown away the money and 
lost it, and he threatened her with a hiding if she did not 
find the money instantly. When the poor child hesitated, 
lie gave her a cuff on the side of her head. With silent 


l’assommoir. 


301 


tears streaming down her cheeks, she would pick up the 
sous and toss them from hand to hand to cool them, as sh$ 
went down the long flights of stairs. 

There was no limit to the strange ingenuity of this man. 
One afternoon, for example, Lalie having completed her 
day’s labors, was kneeling and playing with the children. 
The window was open, and the air shook the door so that 
it sounded like gentle raps. 

“It is Mr. Wind,” said Lalie; “come in, Mr. Wind — 
how are you to-day?” 

And she made a low courtesy to Mr. Wind. The chil- 
dren did the same in high glee, and she was quite radiant 
with happiness, which was not often the case. 

“Come in, Mr. Wind!” she repeated; but the door was 
pushed open by a rough hand, and Bijard entered. Then 
a sudden change came over the scene. The two children 
crouched in a corner, while Lalie stood in the centre of the 
floor frozen stiff with terror, for Bijard held in his hand 
a new whip, with a long and wicked-looking lash. He 
laid this whip on the bed, and did not kick either one of 
the children, but smiled in the most vicious way, showing 
his two lines of blackened, irregular teeth. He was very 
drunk and very noisy. 

“What is the matter with you fools? Have you been 
struck dumb ? I heard you all talking and laughing mer- 
rily enough before I came in. Where are your tongues 
now? Here! Take off my shoes!” 

Lalie, considerably disheartened at not having received 
her customary kick, turned very pale as she obeyed. He 


302 


i/a ssommoir. 


was sitting on the side of the bed. He lay down without 
undressing, and watched the child as she moved about the 
room. Troubled by this strange conduct, the child ended 
by breaking a cup. Then, without disturbing himself, he 
took up the whip and showed it to her. 

“ Look here, fool,” he said, grimly : “ I bought this for 
you, and it cost me fifty sous ; but I expect to get a good 
deal more than fifty sous’ worth of good out of it. With 
this long lash I need not run about after you, for I can 
reach you in every corner of the room. You will break 
the cups, will you? Come, now, jump about a little, and 
say good-morning to Mr. Wind again ! ” 

He did not even sit up in the bed, but with his head 
buried in the pillow, snapped the whip with a noise like 
that made by a postilion. The lash curled round Lake’s 
slender body — she fell on the floor; but he lashed her 
again, and compelled her to rise. 

“ This is a very good thing,” he said, coolly, “ and saves 
my getting chilled on cold mornings. Yes, I can reach 
you in that corner — and in that! Skip, now ! Skip ! ” 

A light foam was on his lips, and his suffused eyes were 
starting from their sockets. Poor little Lalie darted about 
the room like a terrified bird, but the lash tingled over her 
shoulders, coiled around her slender legs, and stung like a 
viper. She was like an India rubber ball bounding from 
the floor, while her beast of a father laughed aloud and 
asked her if she had had enough. 

The door opened, and Gervaise entered. She had heard 
the noise. She stood aghast at the scene, and then was 
seized with noble rage. 


l’assommoir. 303 

“ Let her be ! ” she cried. “ I will go myself and sum- 
mon the police.” 

Ljjard growled like an animal who is disturbed over his 
prey. 

“ Why do you meddle?” he exclaimed. “ What busi- 
ness is it of yours?” 

And with another adroit movement he cut Lalie 
across tfte face. The blood gushed from her lip. Ger- 
vaise snatched a chair jtnd flew at the brute, but the little 
girl helvl her skirts and said it did not hurt much, it 
would bj over soon, and she washed the blood away, 
speaking gently to the frightened children. 

When Gervaise thought of Lalie she was ashamed to 
complain. She wished she had the courage of this child. 
She knew that she had lived on dry bread for weeks, and 
that she was so weak she could hardly stand, and the 
tears came to the woman’s eyes as she saw the precocious 
mite, who had known nothing of the innocent happiness 
of her years. And Gervaise took this slender creature for 
example, whose eyes alone told the story of her misery 
and hardships, for in the Coupeau family, the vitriol of the 
Assommoir was also doing its work of destruction. Ger- 
vaise had seen a whip. Gervaise had learned to dread it, 
and this dread inspired her with tenderest pity for Lalie. 
Coupeau had lost the flesh and the bloated look which had 
been his, and he was thin and emaciated. His complexion 
was gradually acquiring a leaden hue. His appetite 
was utterly gone. It was with difficulty that he swallowed 
a mouthful of bread. His stomach turned against all 


304 


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solid food, but he took bis brandy every day. This was 
his meat as well as his drink, and he touched nothing 
else. 

When he crawled out of his bed in the morning he 
stood for a good fifteen minutes, coughing and spitting 
out a bitter liquid that rose in his throat and choked him. 

He did not feel any better until he had taken what he 
called “a good drink,” and later in the day his strength 
returned. He felt strange prickings in the skin of his 
hands and feet. But lately his limbs had grown heavy. 
This pricking sensation gave place to the most excruciating 
cramps, which he did not find very amusing. He rarely 
laughed no>v, but often stopped short and stood still oil 
the sidewalk, troubled by a strange buzzing in his ears, 
and by flashes of light before his eyes. Everything 
looked yellow to him; the houses seemed to be moving 
away from him. At other times when the sun was full 
on his back, he shivered as if a stream of ice water had 
been poured down between his shoulders. But the thing 
he liked the least about himself, was a nervous trembling 
in his hands, the right hand especially. 

“Had he become an old woman, then?” he asked him- 
self, with sudden fury. He tried with all his strength to 
lift his glass and command his nerves enough to hold it 
steady. But the glass had a regular tremulous movement 
from right to left, and left to right again, in spite of all 
his efforts. 

Then he emptied it down his throat, saying that when 
he had swallowed a dozen more, he should be all right 


l’assommoir. 


305 


ami as steady as a monument. Gervaise told him on the 
contrary that h i must leave off drinking, if he wished to 
leave off trembling. 

He grew very angry, and drank quarts in his eagerness 
to test the question, finally declaring that it was the pass- 
ing omnibuses that jarred the house and shook his hand. 

In March Coupeau came in one night drenched to the 
skin. He had been caught out in a shower. That night 
he could not sleep for coughing. In the morning he had 
a high fever, and the physician who was sent for, advised 
Gervaise to send him at once to the hospital. 

And Gervaise made no objection ; once she had refused 
to trust her husband to these people; but now she con- 
signed him to their tender mercies without a regret, in 
fact she should regard it as a mercy. 

Nevertheless, when the litter came, she turned very 
pale, and if she had had even ten francs in her pocket 
would have kept him at home. She walked to the hospi- 
tal by the side of the litter, and went into the ward where 
he was placed. The room looked to her like a miniature 
P&re La Chaise, with its rows of beds on either side, and 
its path down the middle. She went slowly away, and in 
the street she turned and looked up. How well she re- 
membered when Coupeau was at work on those gutters, 
cheerily singing in the morning air! He did not drink 
in those days, and she, at her window in the Hotel Bon- 
coeur, had watched his athletic form against the sky, and 
both had waved their handkerchiefs. Yes, Coupeau had 
worked more than a year on this hospital, little thinking 


306 


l’assommoir. 


that he was preparing a place for himself. Now he was 
no longer on the roof — he had built a disnral nest within. 
Good God ! was she, and the once happy wife and mother, 
one and the same? How long ago those days seemed ! 

' The next day when Gervaise went to make inquiries, 
she found the bed empty. A Sister explained that her 
husband had been taken to the asylum of Sainte-Anne, 
because the night before he had suddenly become unman- 
ageable from delirium, and had uttered such terrible 
howls that it disturbed the inmates of all the beds in that 
ward. It was the alcohol in his system, she said, which 
attacked his nerves now, when he was so reduced by the 
inflammation on his lungs that he could not resist it. 

The clear-starcher went home, but how or by what 
route she never knew. Her husband was mad — she 
heard these words reverberating through her brain. Life 
was growing very strange. Nana simply said that he 
must, of course, be left at the asylum, for he might murder 
them both^p 

On Sunday only could Gervaise go to Sainte-Anne. It 
was a long distance off. Fortunately there was an omni- 
bus which went very near. She got out at La Rue Sant4, 
and bought two oranges that she might not go quite 
empty-handed. 

But when she went in, to her astonishment she found 
Coupeau sitting up. He welcomed her gayly. 

“You are better! ” she exclaimed. 

“ Yes, nearly well,” he replied ; and they talked to- 
gether a while, and she gave him the oranges, which 


l’assommoir. 


307 


pleased and touched him, for he was a different man, now 
that he drank tisane instead of liquor. She did not dare 
allude to his delirium, but he spoke of it himself. 

“Yes,” he said, “I was in a pretty state! I saw rats 
running all over the floor and the walls, and you were 
calling me; and I saw all sorts of horrible things! But 
I am all right now. Once in a while I have a bad dream, 
but everybody does, I suppose.” 

Gervaise remained with him until night. When the 
house surgeon made his rounds at six o’clock, he told 
him to hold out his hands. They scarcely trembled — an 
almost imperceptible motion of the tips of his fingers was 
all. But as the room grew darker, Coupeau became rest- 
less. Two or three times he sat up and peered into the 
remote corners. 

Suddenly he stretched out his arm, and seemed to crush 
some creature on the wall. 

“What is it?” asked Gervaise, terribly frightened. 

“Rats!” he said, quietly; “only rats!” 

After a long silence, he seemed to be dropping off to 
sleep, with disconnected sentences falling from his lips. 

“Dirty beasts! Look out, one is under your skirts!” 
He pulled the covering hastily over his head, as if to 
protect himself against the creature he saw. 

Then, starting up in mad terror, he screamed aloud. 
A nurse ran to the bed, and Gervaise was sent away mute 
with horror at this. scene. 

But when, on the following Sunday, she went again to 
#he hospital, Coupeau was really well. All his dreams had 


308 


l’assommoik. 


vanished. He slept like a child, ten hours without lifting 
a finger. His wife, therefore, was allowed to take him 
away. The house surgeon gave him a few words of advice 
before he left, assuring him, if he continued to drink, he 
would be a dead man in three months. All depended on 
himself. He could live at home just as he had lived at 
Sainte-Anne’s, and must forget that such things as wine 
and brandy existed. 

“ He is right,” said Gervaise, as they took their seats in 
the omnibus. 

“Of course he is right,” answered her husband. But 
after a moment’s silence he added : 

“ But then, you know, a drop of brandy now and then 
never hurts a man : it aids digestion.” 

That very evening he took a tiny drop, and for a week 
was very moderate ; he had no desire, he said, to end his 
days at Bicdtre. But he was soon off his guard, and one 
day his little drop ended in a full glass— to be followed by 
a second, and so on. At the end of a fortnight he had 
fallen back in the old rut. 

Gervaise did her best, but after all what can a wife do 
in such circumstances? 

She had been so startled by the scene at the asylum, that 
she had fully determined to begin a regular life again, and 
hoped that he would assist her and do the same himself. 
But now she saw that there was no hope — that even the 
knowledge of the inevitable results could not restrain her 
husband now. 

Then the Hell on earth began again ; hopeless and 


l’assommoie. 


309 


intolerant, Nana asked indignantly, why he had not 
remained in the asylum. All the money she made, she 
said, should be spent in brandy for her father, for the 
sooner it was ended, the better for them all. 

Gervaise blazed out one day, when he lamented his 
marriage, and told him that it was for her to curse the 
day when she first saw him. He must remember that 
she had refused him over and over again. The scene was 
a frightful one, and one unexampled in the Coupeau 
annals. 

Gervaise, now utterly discouraged, grew more indolent 
every day. Her room was rarely swept. The Lorilleux 
said they could not enter it, it was so dirty. They 
talked all day long over their work of the downfall of 
Wooden Legs. They gloated over her poverty and her 
rags. 

“Well! well!” they murmured. “A great change has 
indeed come to that beautiful blonde who was so fine in 
her blue shop.” 

Gervaise suspected their comments on her and her acts 
to be most unkind, but she determined to have no open 
quarrel. It was for her interest to speak to them when 
they met, but that was all the intercourse between them. 

One Saturday, Coupeau had told his wife he would take 
her to the circus; he had earned a little money and insisted 
on indulging himself. Nana was obliged to stay late at 
the place where she worked, and would sleep with her 
aunt, Madame Lerat. 

Seven o’clock came, but no Coupeau. Her husband was 


310 


l’assommoir. 


drinking with his comrades probably. She had washed a 
cap and mended an old gown with the hope of being 
presentable. About nine o’clock, in a towering rage, she 
sallied forth on an empty stomach to find Coupeau. 

“Are you looking for your husband ? ” said Madame 
Boche. “He is at the Assommoir. Boche has just seen 
him there.” 

Gervaise muttered her thanks and went with rapid 
steps to the Assommoir. 

A fine rain was falling. The gas in the tavern was 
blazing brightly — lighting up the mirrors, the bottles and 
glasses. She stood at the window and looked in. He was 
sitting at a table with his comrades. The atmosphere 
■was thick with smoke, and he looked stupefied and half 
asleep. 

She shivered, and wondered why she should stay there, 
and so thinking turned away, only to come back twice to 
look again. 

The water lay on the uneven sidewalk in pools, reflect- 
ing all the lights from the Assommoir. Finally, she 
determined on a bold step : she opened the door and 
deliberately walked up to her husband. After all, why 
should she not ask him why he had not kept his promise 
of taking her to the circus? At any rate she would not 
stay out there in the rain, and melt away like a cake of 
soap. 

“ She is crazy ! ” said Coupeau, when he saw her. “ I 
tell you she is crazy ! ” 

He and all his friends shrieked with laughter, but n<? 


l’assommoir. 


311 


one condescended to say what it was that was so very 
droll. Gervaise stood still, a little bewildered by this 
unexpected reception. Coupeau was so amiable that she 
said : 

“ Come, you know it is not too late to see something.” 

“Sit down a minute,” said her husband, not moving 
from his seat. 

Gervaise saw she could not stand there among all those 
men, so she accepted the offered chair. She looked at the 
glasses whose contents glittered like gold. She looked at 
these dirty, shabby men, and at the others crowding 
around the counter. It was very warm, and the pipe- 
smoke thickened the air. 

Gervaise felt as if she were choking ; her eyes smarted, 
and her head was heavy with the fumes of alcohol. She 
turned around and saw the still, the machine that created 
drunkards. That evening the copper was dull and glit- 
tered only in one round spot. The shadows of the 
apparatus on the wall behind were strange and weird 
— creatures with tails — monsters opening gigantic jaws 
•as if to swallow the whole world. 

“ What will you take to drink?” said Coupeau. 

“Nothing,” answered his wife. “You know I li'ave 
had no dinner ! ” 

“ You need it all the more, then ! Have a drop of 
something! ” 

As she hesitated, Mes-Bottes said, gallantly: 

“The lady would like something sweet like herself.” 

“I like men/* she answered angnlv, “who do not get 


312 


l’assommois. 


tipsy and talk like fools! I like men who keep their 
promises ! ” 

Her husband laughed. 

“You had better drink your share,” he said ; “for the 
devil a bit of a circus will you see to-night.” 

She looked at him fixedly. A heavy frown contracted 
her eyebrows. She answered slowly : 

“ You are right ; it is a good idea. We can drink up the 
money together.” 

Bibi brought her a glass of anisette. As she sipped it, 
she remembered all at once the brandied fruit she had 
eaten in the same place with Coupeau, when he was court- 
ing her. That day she had left the brandy and took 
only the fruit; and now she was sitting there drinking 
liqueur. 

But the anisette was good. When her glass was empty 
she refused another, and yet she was not satisfied. 

She looked around at the infernal machine behind her — 
a machine that should have been buried ten fathoms deep 
in the sea. Nevertheless, it had for her a strange fasci- 
nation, and she longed to quench her thirst with that 
liquid fire. 

“What is that you have in your glasses?” she said. 

“That, my dear,” answered her husband, “is Father 
Colombe’s own especial brew. Taste it.” 

And when a glass of the vitriol was brought to her, 
Coupeau bade her swallow it down, saying it was good 
for her. 

After she had drank this glass, Gervaise was no lougei 


l’assommoie. 


313 


conscious of the hunger that had tormented her. Coupeau 
told her they could go to the circus another time, and she 
felt she had best stay where she was. It did not rain 
in the Assommoir, and she had come to look upon the 
scene as rather amusing. She was comfortable and sleepy. 
She took a third glass, and then put her head on her 
folded arms, supporting them on the table, and listened to 
her husband and his friends as they talked. 

Behind her the still was at work, with constant drip — 
drip — and she felt a mad desire to grapple with it as with 
some dangerous beast, and tear out its heart. She seemed 
to feel herself caught in those copper fangs, and fancied 
that those coils of pipe were wound around her own body 
— slowly but surely crushing out her life. 

The whole room danced before her eyes, for Gervaise 
was now in the condition which had so often excited her 
pity and indignation with others. She vaguely heard a 
quarrel arise, and a crash of chairs and tables, and then 
Father Colombe promptly turned every one into the street. 

It was still raining, and a cold sharp wind blowing. 
Gervaise lost Coupeau — found him — and then lost him 
again. She wanted to go home, but she could not find 
her way. At the corner of the street she took her seat by 
the side of the gutter, thinking herself at her wash-tub. 
Finally she got home and endeavored to walk straight 
past the door of the Concierge, within whose room she 
was vaguely conscious of the Poissons and Lorilleux hold- 
ing up their hands in disgust at her condition. 

She never knew how she got up those six flights of 

20 


314 


l’assommoie. 


stairs. But when she turned into her own corridor little 
Lalie ran towards her with loving, extended arms. 

“ Dear Madame Gervaise,” she cried, “ papa has not 
come in ; please come and see my children. They are 
sleeping so sweetly!” 

But when she looked up in the face of the clear-starcher, 
she recoiled, trembling from head to foot. She knew only 
too well that alcoholic smell — those wandering eyes, and 
convulsed lips. 

Then as Gervaise staggered past her without speaking, 
the child’s arms fell at her side, and she looked after hef 
friend with sad and solemn eyes. 


l’assommoie. 


315 


CHAPTER XI. 

LITTLE NANA. 

*\X ANA was growing fast — fair, fresh and dimpled — he* 
skin, velvety like a peach, and eyes so bright that 
men often asked her if they might not light their pipes at 
them. Her mass of blonde hair — the color of ripe wheat — 
looked around her temples as if it were powdered with 
gold. She had a quaint little trick of sticking out the tip 
of her tongue between her white teeth, and this habit, foi 
some reason, exasperated her mother. 

She was very fond of finery and very coquettish. In 
this house, where bread was not always to be got, it was 
difficult for her to indulge her caprices in the matter of 
costume, but she did wonders. She brought home odds 
and ends of ribbons, from the shop where she worked, and 
made them up into bows and knots with which she 
ornamented her dirty dresses. She was not over particular 
in washing her feet, but she wore her boots so tight that 
she suffered martyrdom in honor of Saint Crispin, and if 
any one asked her what the matter was, when the pain 
flushed her face suddenly, she always and promptly laid it 
to the score of the colic. 

Summer was the season of her triumphs. In a calico 
dress that cost five or six francs, she was as fresh and 
sweet as a spring morning, and made the dull street 


316 


l’assommoie. 


radiant with her youth and her beauty. She went by the 
name of “ The Little Chicken.” One gown in particular 
suited her to perfection. It was white, with rose-colored 
dots, without trimming of any kind. The skirt was short 
and showed her feet. The sleeves were very wide, and 
displayed her arms to the elbows. She turned the neck 
away and fastened it with pins — in a corner in the corridor, 
dreading her father’s jests — to exhibit her pretty rounded 
throat. A rose-colored ribbon, knotted in the rippling 
masses of her hair, completed her toilet. She was a 
charming combination of child and woman. 

Sundays at this period of her life were her days for 
coquetting with the public. She looked forward to them 
all the week through, with a longing for liberty and 
fresh air. 

Early in the morning she began her preparations, and 
stood for hours in her chemise before the bit of broken 
mirror nailed by the window, and as every one could see 
her, her mother would be very much vexed, and ask how 
long she intended to show herself in that way. 

But she, quite undisturbed, went on fastening down the 
little curls on her forehead with a little sugar and water, 
and then sewed the buttons on her boots, or took a stitch 
or two in her frock ; bare-footed all this time, and with 
her chemise slipping off her rounded shoulders. 

Her father declared he would exhibit her as the Wild 
Girl, at two sous a head. 

She was very lovely in this scanty costume, the color 
flushing her cheeks in her indignation at her father’s some- 


L'ASSOMMOIR. 


317 


times coarse remarks. She did not dare answer him 
however, but bit off her thread in silent rage. After 
breakfast, she went down to the court-yard. The house 
was wrapped in Sunday quiet — the workshops on the 
lower floor were closed. Through some of the open 
windows the tables were seen laid for dinners, the families 
being on the Fortifications “getting an appetite.” 

Five or six girls — Nana, Pauline and others — lingered in 
the court-yard for a time, and then took flight altogether 
into the streets, and thence to the outer Boulevards. They 
walked in a line, filling up the whole sidewalk, with 
ribbons fluttering in their uncovered hair. 

They managed to see everybody and everything 
through their downcast lids. The streets were their 
native heath as it were, for they had grown up in them. 

Nana walked in the centre and gave her arm to 
Pauline ; and, as they were the oldest and tallest of the 
band, they gave the law to the others, and decided where 
they should go for the day, and what they should do. 

Nana and Pauline were deep ones. They did nothing 
without premeditation. If they ran it was to show their 
slender ankles, and when they stopped and panted for 
breath it was sure to be at the side of some youths — 
young workmen of their acquaintance — who smoked in 
their faces as they talked. Nana had her favorite, whom 
she always saw at a great distance — Victor Fauconnier ; 
and Pauline adored a young cabinet-maker, who gave her 
apples. 

Toward sunset the great pleasure of the day began. A 


318 


l’assommoir. 


band of mountebanks would spread a well-worn carpet, 
and a circle was formed to look on. Nana and Pauline 
were always in the thickest of the crowd, their pretty 
fresh dresses crushed between dirty blouses, but insensible 
to the mingled odors of dust and alcohol, tobacco and dirt. 
They heard vile language ; it did not disturb them ; it 
was their own tongue — they had heard little else. They 
listened to it with a smile, their delicate cheeks unflushed. 

The only thing that disturbed them, was the appear- 
ance of their fathers, particularly if these fathers seemed to 
have been drinking. They kept a good lookout for this 
disaster. 

“Look!” cried Pauline. “Your father is coming, 
Nana.” 

Then the girl would crouch on her knees and bid the 
others stand close around her, and when he had passed 
on after an inquiring look she would jump up, and they 
would all utter peals of laughter. 

But one day Nana was kicked home by her father, and 
Boche dragged Pauline away by her ear. 

The girls would ordinarily return to the court-yard in 
the twilight, and establish themselves there with the air 
of not having been away ; and each invented a story with 
which to greet their questioning parents. Nana now 
received forty sous per day at the place where she had 
been apprenticed. The Coupeaus would not allow her to 
change, because she was there under the supervision of 
her aunt, Madame Lerat, who had been employed for 
many years in the same establishment. 


l’assom moie. 


319 


The girl went off at an early hour in her little black 
dress, which was too short and too tight for her, and 
Madame Lerat was bidden, whenever she was after her 
time, to inform Gervaise, who allowed her just twenty 
minutes, which was quite long enough. But she was 
often seven or eight minutes late, and she spent her whole 
day coaxing her aunt not to tell her mother. Madame 
Lerat, who was fond of the girl and understood the 
follies of youth, did not tell ; but, at the same time, she 
read Nana many a long sermon on her follies, and talked 
of her own responsibility, and of the dangers a young girl 
ran in Paris. 

“You must tell me everything,” she said. “I am too 
indulgent to you, and if evil should come of it I should 
throw myself into the Seine. Understand me, my little 
kitten ; if a man should speak to you, you must promise 
to tell me every word he says. Will you swear to do 
this ? ” 

Nana laughed an equivocal little laugh. Oh ! yes, she 
would promise. But men never spoke to her : she walked 
too fast for that. What could they say to her? And 
she explained her irregularity in coming — her five or ten 
minutes delay— with an innocent little air. She had 
stopped at a window to look at pictures, or she had 
stopped to talk to Pauline. Her aunt might follow her 
if she did not believe her. 

“Oh! I will watch her. You need not be afraid!” 
said the widow to her brother. “ I will answer for her, 
as I would for myself! ” 


320 


l’assommoir. 


The place where the aunt and niece worked side by side, 
was a large room, with a long table down the centre. 
Shelves against the wall were piled with boxes and bundles 
— all covered with a thick coating of dust. The gas had 
blackened the ceiling. The two windows were so large 
that the women, seated at the table, could see all that 
was going on in the street below. 

Madame Lerat was the first to make her appearance in 
the morning, but in another fifteen minutes all the others 
were there. One morning in July Nana came in last, 
which, however, was the usual case. 

“I shall be glad when I have a carriage ! ” she said, as 
she ran to the window without even taking off her hat — a 
shabby little straw. 

“What are you looking at?” asked her aunt, suspi- 
ciously. “ Did your father come with you ? ” 

“No, indeed,” answered Nana, carelessly; “nor am 1 
looking at anything. It is awfully warm, and of all 
things in the world I hate to be in a hurry.” 

The morning was indeed frightfully hot. The work- 
women had closed the blinds, leaving a crack, however, 
through which they could inspect the street, and they 
took their seats on each side of the table — Madame Lerat 
at the further end. There were eight girls, four on either 
side, each with her little pot of glue, her pincers and other 
tools; heaps of wires of different lengths and sizes lay 
on the table, spools of cotton, and of different-colored 
papers, petals and leaves cut out of silk, velvet and satin. 
In the centre, in a goblet, one of the girls had placed 


LASSO MMOIR. 


321 


a two sous bouquet, which was slowly withering in the 
heat. 

“ Did you know,” said LSonie, as she picked up a rose- 
.leaf with her pincers, “how wretched poor Caroline is 
with that fellow who used to call for her regularly every 
night?” 

Before any one could answer, Leonie added : 

“ Hush ! here cotnes Madame.” 

And in sailed Madame Titreville, a tall^ thin woman, 
who usually remained below in the shop. Her employees 
stood in deadly terror of her, as she was never known to 
smile. She went from one to another, finding fault with 
all : she ordered one woman to pull a marguerite to pieces 
and make it over, and then went out as stiffly and silently 
as she had come in. 

“ Houp ! Houp ! ” said Nana, under her breath, and a 
giggle ran round the table. 

“Really, young ladies,” said Madame Lerat, “you will 
compel me to severe measures.” 

But no one was listening, and no one feared her. She 
was very tolerant. They could say what they pleased, 
provided they put it in decent language. 

Nana was certainly in a good school ! Her instincts, to 
be sure, were vicious ; but these instincts were fostered 
and developed in this place, as is too often the case, when 
a crowd of girls are herded together. It was the story of 
a basket of apples, the good ones spoiled by those that 
were already rotten. If two girls were whispering in a 
corner, ten to one they were telling some story that could 
not be told aloud. 


322 


l’as sommoie. 


Nana was not yet thoroughly perverted; but the 
curiosity which had been her distinguishing characteristic 
as a child had not deserted her, and she scarcely took her 
eyes from a girl by the name of Lisa, about whom strange 
stories were told. 

“ How warm it is ! ” she exclaimed, suddenly rising and 
pushing open the blinds. L6onie saw a man standing on 
the sidewalk opposite. 

“Who is that old fellow?” she said. “He has been 
there a full quarter of an hour.” 

“ Some fool who has nothing better to do, I suppose,” 
said Madame Lerat. “ Nana, will you come back to your 
work ? I have told you that you should not go to that 
window.” 

Nana took up her violets, and they all began to watch 
this man. He was well dressed, about fifty, pale and 
grave. For a full hour he watched the windows. 

“ Look ! ” said L6onie, “ he has an eye-glass. Oh ! he 
is very chic. He is waiting for Augustine.” But Augus- 
tine sharply answered that she did not like old men. 

“ You make a great mistake then,” said Madame Lerat, 
with her equivocal smile. 

Nana listened to the conversation which followed — 
revelling in indecency — as much at home in it, as a fish 
is in water. All the time her fingers were busy at work. 
She wound her violet stems, and fastened in the leaves 

with a slender strip of green paper. A drop of gum 

and then behold a bunch of delicate fresh verdure which 
would fascinate any lady. Her fingers were especially 


l'assom mo I r. 


323 


deft by Nature. No instruction could have imparted this 
quality. 

The gentleman had gone away, and the workshop 
settled down into quiet once more. When the bell rang 
for twelve, Nana started up, and said she would go out 
and execute any commissions. L6onie sent for two sous 
worth of shrimp; Augustine for some fried potatoes; 
Sophie for a sausage; and Lisa for a bunch of radishes. 
As she was going out, her aunt said, quietly : 

“ I will go with you. I want something.” 

Lo 1 in the lane running up by the shop was the 
mysterious stranger. Nana turned very red, and her aunt 
drew her arm within her own, and hurried her along. 

So, then, he had come for her! Was not this pretty 
behavior for a girl of her age? And Madame Lerat 
asked question after question ; but Nana knew nothing of 
him, she declared, though he had followed her for five days. 

Madame Lerat looked at the man out of the corners of 
her eyes. “ You must tell me everything,” she said. 

While they talked, they went from shop to shop, and 
their arms grew full of small packages; but they hurried 
back, still talking of the gentleman. 

“ It may be a good thing,” said Madame Lerat, “ if his 
intentions are only honorable.” 

The workwomen eat their breakfast on their knees; 
they were in no hurry, either, to return to their work ; 
when, suddenly, L6onie uttered a low hiss, and, like 
magic, each girl was busy. Madame Titreville entered 
the room, and again made her rounds. 


324 


l’assom moir. 


Madame Lerat did not allow her niece after this day to 
set foot in the street without her. Nana at first was in- 
clined to rebel, but on the whole, it rather flattered her 
vauity to be guarded like a treasure. They had discovered 
that the man who followed her with such persistency' was 
a manufacturer of buttons, and one night the aunt went 
directly up to him and told him that he was behaving in 
a most improper manner. He bowed, and turning on his 
heel, departed — not angrily by any means, and the next 
day he did as usual. 

One day, however, he deliberately walked between the 
aunt and niece, and said something to Nana in a low voice. 
This frightened Madame Lerat, who went at once to her 
brother and told him the whole story, whereupon he flew 
into a violent rage, shook the girl until her teeth chattered, 
and talked to her as if she were the vilest of the vile. 

“ Let her be ! ” said Gervaise, with all a woman’s sense. 
“Let her be! Don’t you see that you are putting all 
sorts of things into her head ? ” 

And it was quite true he had put ideas into her head, 
and had taught her some things she did not know before, 
which was very astonishing. One morning he saw her 
with something in a paper. It was poudre de riz, which, 
with a most perverted taste, she was plastering upon her 
delicate skin. He rubbed the whole of the powder into 
her hair until she looked like a miller’s daughter. 
Another time she came in with some red ribbons to retrim 
her old hat : he asked her furiously where she got them. 

Whenever he saw her with a bit of finery, her father flew 


l’assommoie. 


325 


at her with insulting suspicions and angry violence. She 
defended herself and her small possessions with equal vio- 
lence. One day he snatched from her a little cornelian 
heart, and ground it to dust under his heel. 

She stood looking on, white and stern : for two years 
she had longed for this heart. She said to herself that she 
would not bear such treatment long. Coupeafl occasion- 
ally realized that he had made a mistake; but the mischief 
was done. 

He went every morning with Nana to the shop door, 
and waited outside for five minutes to be sure that she had 
gone in. But one morning, having stopped to talk with a 
friend on the corner for some time, he saw her come out 
again, and vanish like a flash around the corner. She had 
gone up two flights higher than the room where she 
worked, and had sat down on the stairs until she thought 
him well out of the way. 

When he went to Madame Lerat, she told him that she 
washed her hands of the whole business ; she had done all 
she could, and now he must take care of his daughter him- 
self. She advised him to marry the girl at once, or she 
would do worse. 

All the people in the neighborhood knew Nana’s 
admirer by sight. He had been in the court-yard several 
times, and once he had been seen on the stairs. 

The Lorilleux threatened to move away if this sort of 
thing went on, and Madame Boche expressed great pity 
for this poor gentleman whom this scamp of a girl was 
leading by the nose. 


326 


• l’assommoie. 


At first, Nana thought the whole thing a great joke, but 
at the end of a montli she began to be afraid of him. 
Often when she stopped before the jeweller’s he would 
suddenly appear at her side, and ask what she wanted. 

She did not care so much for jewelry or ornaments as 
she did for many other things. Sometimes as the mud 
was spattered over her from the wheels of a carriage, she 
grew faint and sick with envious longings to be better 
dressed — to go to the theatre — to have a pretty room all to 
herself. She longed to see another side of life — to know 
something of its pleasures. The stranger invariably 
appeared at these moments, but she always turned and 
fled, so great was her horror of him. 

But when winter came, existence became well nigh in- 
tolerable. Each evening Nana was beaten, and when her 
father was tired of this amusement, her mother scolded. 
They rarely had anything to eat, and were always cold. 
If the girl bought some trifling article of dress, it was 
taken from her. 

No! This life could not last. She no longer cared for 
her father. He had thoroughly disgusted her, and now 
her mother drank too. Gervaise went to the Assommoir 
nightly — for her husband, she said — and remained there. 
When Nana saw her mother sometimes, as she passed the 
window, seated among a crowd of men, she turned livid 
with rage, because youth has little patience with the vice 
of intemperance. It was dreary life for her — a comfort- 
less home and a drunken father and mother. A saint on 
earth could not have remained there, that she knew very 


l’assommoie. 


327 


well ; and she said she would make her escape some line 
day, and then perhaps her parents would be sorry, and 
would admit that they had pushed her out of the nest. 

One Saturday, Nana coming in, found her mother and 
father in a deplorable condition — Coupeau lying across the 
bed, and Gervaise sitting in a chair, swaying to and fro. 
She had forgotten the dinner, and one untrimmed candle 
lighted the dismal scene. 

“ Is that you, girl ?” stammered Gervaise. “ Well ! your 
father will settle with you 1 ” 

Nana did not reply. She looked around the cheerless 
room, at the cold stove, at her parents. She did not step 
across the threshold. She turned and went away. 

And she did not come back ! The next day, when her 
father and mother were sober, they each reproached the 
other for Nana’s flight. 

This was really a terrible blow to Gervaise, who had no 
longer the smallest motive for self-control, and she aban- 
doned herself at once to a wild orgie that lasted three 
days. Coupeau gave his daughter up, and smoked his 
pipe quietly. Occasionally, however, when eating his 
dinner, he would snatch up a knife and wave it wildly in 
the air, crying out that he was dishonored, and then laying 
it down as suddenly, resumed his seat and his soup. 

In this great house, whence each month a girl or two, 
took flight, this incident astonished no one. The Lorilleux 
were rather triumphant at the success of their prophecy. 
Lantier defended Nana. 

“Of course,” he said, “she has done wrong ; but bless my 


328 ^’assommoie. 

heart, what would you have ? A girl as pretty as that 
could not live all her days in such poverty ! ” *0 

“You know nothing about it!” cried Madame Loril- 
leux one evening when they were all assembled in the 
room of the Concierge. “ Wooden Legs sold her daughter 
out and out. I know it ! I have positive proof of what 
I say. The time that the old gentleman was seen on the 
stairs, he was going to pay the money. Nana and he were 
seen together at the Ambigu the other night! I tell you 
I know it ! ” 

They finished their coffee. This tale might or might 
not be true; it was not improbable, at all events. And 
after this it was circulated and generally believed in the 
Quartier, that Gervaise had sold her daughter. 

The clear-starcher, meanwhile, was going from bad to 
worse. She had been dismissed from Madame Faucon- 
nier’s, and in the last few weeks had worked for eight 
laundresses, one after the other — dismissed from all for 
her untidiness. 

As she seemed to have lost all skill in ironing, she went 
out by the day to wash, and by degrees was intrusted with 
only the roughest work. This hard labor did not tend to 
beautify her, either. She continued to grow stouter and 
stouter in spite of her scanty food and hard labor. 

Her womanly pride and vanity had all departed. 
Lautier never seemed to see her when they met by chance, 
and she hardly noticed that the liaison which had stretched 
along for so many years, had ended in a mutual 
disenchantment. 

Lantier had done wisely, so far as he was concerned, in 


l’assommoie. 


329 


counselling Virginie to open the kind of shop she had. 
He adored sweets, and could have lived on pralines and 
gum-drops, sugar-plums and chocolate. 

Sugared almonds were his especial delight. For a year 
his principal food was bon-bons. He opened all the jars, 
boxes and drawers, when he was left alone in the shop; and 
often, with five or six persons standing around, he would 
take off the cover of a jar on the counter, and put in his 
hand and crunch down an almond. The cover was not 
put on again, and the jar was soon empty. “It was a 
habit of his,” they all said; besides, “ he was subject to a 
tickling in his throat! ” 

He talked a great deal to Poisson of an invention of 
his which was worth a fortune — an umbrella and hat in 
one; that is to say, a hat which, at the first drops of a 
shower, would expand into an umbrella. 

Lantier suggested to Virginie that she should have 
Gervaise come in once each week, to wash the floors, shop 
and the rooms. This she did, and received thirty sous 
each time. Gervaise appeared on Saturday mornings, 
with her bucket and brush, without seeming to suffer 
a single pang at doing this menial work in the house 
where she had lived as mistress. 

One Saturday Gervaise had hard work. It had rained 
for three days, and all the mud of the streets seemed to 
have been brought into the shop. Virginie stood behind 
the counter, with collar and cuffs trimmed with lace. 
Near her on a low chair lounged Lantier, and he was as 
usual eating candy. 

21 


330 


l’assommoik. 


“Really, Madame Coupean !” cried Virginie, “can’t yon 
do better than that? You have left all the dirt in the 
corners. Don’t you see? Oblige me by doing that over 
again.” 

Gervaise obeyed. She went back to the corner, and 
scrubbed it again. She was on her hands and knees, 
with her sleeves rolled up over her red arms. Her old 
skirt clung close to her stout form, and the sweat poured 
down her face. 

“ The more elbow-grease she uses, the more she shines,” 
said Lantier, sententiously, with his mouth full. 

Virginie, leaning back in her chair with the air of a 
princess, followed the progress of the work with half- 
closed eyes. 

“A little more to the right. Remember those spots 
must all be taken out. Last Saturday, you know, I was 
not pleased.” 

And then Lantier and Virginie fell into a conversation, 
while Gervaise crawled along the floor in the dirt at their 
feet. 

Madame Poisson enjoyed this, for her cat’s eyes sparkled 
with malicious joy, and she glanced at Lantier with a 
smile. At last she was avenged for that mortification at 
the Lavatory, which had for years weighed heavy on her 
soul. 

“By the way,” said Lantier, addressing himself to 
Gervaise, “ I saw Nana last night.” 

Gervaise started to her feet with her brush in her hand. 

“Yes, I was coming down La Rue des Martyrs. In 


l’assommoir. 


331 


front of me was a young girl on the arm of an old gentle- 
man. As I passed I glanced at her face, and assure you 
that it was Nana. She was well dressed, and looked 
happy.” 

“ Ah ! ” said Gervaise, in a low, dull voice. 

Lantier, who had finished one jar, now began on another. 

“ What a girl that is!” he continued. “Imagine that 
she made me a sign to follow with the most perfect self- 
possession. She got rid of her old gentleman in a Cafe 
and beckoned me to the door. She asked me to tell her 
about everybody.” 

“ Ah ! ” repeated Gervaise. 

She stood waiting. Surely this was not all. Her 
daughter must have sent her some especial message. 
Lantier eat his sugar-plums. 

“ I would not have looked at her,” said Virginie. “ I 
sincerely trust, if I should meet her, that she would not 
speak to me, for really it would mortify me beyond expres- 
sion. I am sorry for you, Madame Gervaise, but the truth 
is, that Poisson arrests every day a dozen just such girls.” 

Gervaise said nothing; her eyes were fixed on vacancy. 
She shook her head slowly, as if in reply to her own 
thoughts. 

“ Pray make haste,” exclaimed Virginie, fretfully. “ I do 
not care to have this scrubbing going on until midnight.*’ 

Gervaise returned to her work. With her two hands 
clasped around the handle of the brush she pushed the 
water before her toward the door. After this she had 
only to rinse the floor after sweeping the dirty water into 
the gutter. 


332 


l’assommoie. 


When all was accomplished she stood before the counter 
waiting for her money. When Yirginie tossed it toward 
her she did not take it up instantly. 

“ Then she said nothing else?” Gervaise asked. 

“ She ! ” Lautier exclaimed. “ Who is she ? Ah ! yes, I 
remember. Nana ! No ; she said nothing more.” 

And Gervaise went away with her thirty sous in her 
hand — her skirts dripping and her shoes leaving the 
marks of their broad soles on the sidewalk. 

In the Quartier, all the women who drank like herself 
took her part, and declared she had been driven to 
intemperance by her daughter’s misconduct. She, too, 
began to believe this herself, and assumed at times a tragic 
air, and wished she were dead. Unquestionably she 
had suffered from Nana’s departure. A mother does not 
like to feel that her daughter will leave her for the first 
person who asks her to do so. 

But she was too thoroughly demoralized to care long, 
and soon she had but one idea : that Nana belonged to her 
— and that she had been stolen from her. Had she not a 
right to her own property? 

She roamed the streets day after day, night after night, 
hoping to see the girl. That year half the Quartier was 
being demolished. All one side of the Hue des Poissonni£rs 
lay flat on the ground. Lantier and Poisson disputed day 
after day on these demolitions. The one declared that 
the Emperor wanted to build palaces and drive the lower 
classes out of Paris, while Poisson, white with rage, 
said the Emperor would pull down the whole of Paris 
merely to give work to the people. 


l’assommoir. 


333 


Gervaise did not like the improvements either, or the 
changes in the dingy Quartier, to which she was 
accustomed. It was, in fact, a little hard for her to see 
all these embellishments, just when she was going down 
hill so fast, and she grumbled as she fell over the piles 
of brick and mortar, while she was wandering about in 
search of Nana. 

She had heard of her daughter several times. There 
are always plenty of people to tell you things you do not 
care to hear. She was told that Nana had left her elderly 
friend for the sake of some young fellow. 

She heard, too, that Nana had been seen at a ball in the 
Grand Salon — Rue de la Chapelle ; and Coupeau and she 
began to frequent all these places, one after another, when- 
ever they had the money to spend. 

But at the end of a month they had forgotten Nana, and 
went for their own pleasure. They sat for hours, with 
their elbows on a table — which shook with the movements 
of the dancers — amused by the sight. 

One November night they entered the Grand Salon , as 
much to get warm as anything else. Outside it was hail- 
ing, and the rooms were naturally crowded. They could 
not find a table, and they stood waiting until they could 
establish themselves. Coupeau was directly in the mouth 
of the passage, and a young man, in a frock coat, was 
thrown against him. The youth uttered an exclamation 
of disgust, as he began to dust off his coat with his hand- 
kerchief. The blouse worn by Coupeau was assuredly 
none of the cleanest. 


334 


l’assommoir. 


"Look here, my good fellow!” cried Coupeau, angrily, 
" those airs are very unnecessary. I would have you to 
know that the blouse of a working-man can do your coat 
no harm, if it has touched it ! ” 

The young man turned around and looked at Coupeau 
from head to foot. 

"Learn,” continued the angry workman, "that the 
blouse is the only wear for a man ! ” 

Gervaise endeavored to calm her husband, who, how- 
ever, -tapped his ragged breast, and repeated loudly — 

“ The only wear for a man, I tell you ! ” 

The youth slipped away and was lost in the crowd. 
Coupeau tried to find him, but it was quite impossible ; 
the crowd was too great. The orchestra was playing a 
quadrille, and the dancers were bringing up the dust from 
the floor in great clouds, which obscured the gas. 

“ Look ! ” said Gervaise, suddenly. 

"What is it?” 

" Look at that velvet bonnet ! ” 

Quite at the left there was a velvet bonnet, black with 
plumes, only too suggestive of a hearse. They watched 
these nodding plumes breathlessly. 

“Do you not know that hair?” murmured Gervaise, 
hoarsely. " I am sure it is she ! ” 

In one second Coupeau was in the centre of the crowd. 
Yes, it was Nana, and in what a costume! She wore a 
ragged silk dress, stained and torn. She had no shawl 
over her shoulders to conceal the fact that half the button- 
holes on her dress were burst out. In spite of all her 


Ii’ASSOM MOIR. 


335 


shubbiness the girl was pretty and fresh. Nana, of course, 
danced on unsuspiciously. Her airs and graces were be- 
yond belief. She courtesied to the very ground, and then 
in a twinkling threw her foot over her partner’s head. A 
circle was formed and she was applauded vociferously. 

At this moment Coupeau fell on his daughter. 

“ Don’t try and keep me back ! ” he said, “ for have her 
I will!” 

Nana turned and saw her father and mother. 

Coupeau discovered that his daughter’s partner was the 
young man for whom he had been looking. Gervaise 
pushed him aside and walked up to Nana and gave her 
two cuffs on her ears. One sent the plumed hat on one 
side, the other left five red marks on that pale cheek. The 
orchestra played on. Nana neither wept nor moved. 

The dancers began to grow very angry. They ordered 
the Coupeau party to leave the room. 

“ Go ! ” said Gervaise, “ and do not attempt to leave us ; 
for so sure as you do, you will be given in charge of a 
policeman.” 

The young man had prudently disappeared. 

Nana’s old life now began again ; for after the girl had 
slept for twelve hours on a stretch, she was very gentle 
and sweet for a week. She wore a plain gown and a 
simple hat, and declared she would like to work at homo. 
She rose early and took a seat at her table by five o’clock 
the first morning, and tried to roll her violet stems; but 
her fingers had lost their cunning in the six months in 
which they had been idle. 


336 


l’assommoir. 


Then the glue-pot dried up, the petals and the paper 
were dusty and spotted ; the mistress of the establishment 
came for her tools and materials, and made more than one 
scene. Nana relapsed into utter indolence, quarrelling 
with her mother from morning until night. Of course 
an end must come to this ; so one fine evening the girl 
disappeared. 

The Lorilleux, who had been greatly amused by the 
repentance and return of their niece, now nearly died 
laughing. If she returned again they would advise the 
Coupeaus to put her in a cage like a canary. 

The Coupeaus pretended to be rather pleased, but in 
their hearts they raged; particularly as they soon learned 
that Nana was frequently seen in the Quartier. Gervaise 
declared this was done by the girl to annoy them. 

Nana adorned all the balls in the vicinity, and the Cou- 
peaus knew that they could lay their hands on her at any 
time they chose ; but they did not choose, and they avoided 
meeting her. 

But, one night, just as they were going to bed, they 
heard a rap on the door. It was Nana, who came to ask, 
as coolly as possible, if she could sleep there. What a 
state she was in ! all rags and dirt. She devoured a crust 
of dried bread, and fell asleep with a part of it in her 
hand. This continued for some time, the girl coming 
and going like a will-of-the-wisp. Weeks and months 
would elapse without a sign from her, and then she would 
reappear, without a word to say where she had been, 
sometimes in rags and sometimes well-dressed. Finally 


l’assommoir. 


337 


her parents began to take these proceedings as a matter of 
course. She might come in — they said — or stay out, just as 
she pleased, provided she kept the door shut. Only one 
thing exasperated Gervaise now, and that was when her 
daughter appeared with a bonnet and feathers, and a train. 
This she would not endure. When Nana came to her 
it must be as a simple working-woman ! None of this 
dearly-bought finery should be exhibited there, for these 
trained dresses had created a great excitement in the house. 

One day Gervaise reproached her daughter violently for 
the life she led, and finally, in her rage, took her by the 
shoulder and shook her. 

“ Let me be ! ” cried the girl. “ You are the last per- 
son to talk to me in that way. You did as you pleased : 
why can’t I do the same?” 

“ What do you mean ? ” stammered the mother. 

“ I have never said anything about it, because it was 
none of my business ; but do you think I did not know 
where you were when my father lay snoring? Let me 
alone. It was you who set me the example.” 

Gervaise turned away pale and trembling, while Nana 
composed herself to sleep again. 

Coupeau’s life was a very regular one — that is to say, 
he did not drink for six months and then yielded to temp- 
tation, which brought him up with a round turn and sent 
him to Sainte- Anne’s. When he came out he did the same 
thing, so that in three years he was seven times at Sainte- 
Anne’s ; and each time he came out, the fellow looked 
more broken and less able to stand another orgie. 


338 


l’assommoir. 


The poison had penetrated his entire system. He had 
grown very thin, his cheeks were hollow, and his eyes 
inflamed. Those who knew his age shuddered as they saw 
him pass, bent and decrepit as a man of eighty. The trem- 
bling of his hands had so increased that some days he was 
obliged to use them both, in raising his glass to his lips. 
This annoyed him intensely, and seemed to be the only 
symptom of his failing health which disturbed him. He 
sometimes swore violently at these unruly members, and 
at others sat for hours looking at these fluttering hands as 
if trying to discover by what strange mechanism they were 
moved. And one night Gervaise found him sitting in 
this way with great tears pouring down his withered 
cheeks. 

The last summer of his life was especially trying to 
Coupeau. His voice was entirely changed ; he was 
deaf of one ear ; and some days he could not see, and 
was obliged to feel his way up and down-stairs as if he 
were blind. He suffered from maddening headaches, 
and sudden pains would dart through his limbs, causing 
him to snatch at a chair for support. Sometimes after 
one of these attacks, his arm would be paralyzed for 
twenty- four hours. 

He would lie in bed with even his head wrapped up, silent 
and moody, like some suffering animal. Then came in- 
cipient madness and fever — tearing everything to pieces 
that came in his way — or he would weep and moan, de- 
claring that no one loved him, that he was a burthen to 
his wife. One evening when his wife and daughter came 


l’assommoir. 


339 


in lie was not in his bed; in his place lay the bolster 
carefully tucked in. They found him at last crouched 
on the floor under the bed, with his teeth chattering 
with cold and fear. He told them he had been attacked 
by assassins. 

The two women coaxed him back to bed as if he had 
been a baby. 

Coupeau knew but one remedy for all this, and that was 
a good stout morning dram. His memory had long since 
fled, his brain had softened. When Nana appeared after 
an absence of six weeks, he thought she had been of an 
errand around the corner. She met him in the street too, 
very often now, without fear, for he passed without recog- 
nizing her. One night in the autumn Nana went out, 
saying she wanted some baked pears from the fruiterer’s. 
She felt the cold weather coming on and she did not care 
to sit before a cold stove. The winter before, she went 
out for two sous worth of tobacco and came back in a 
month’s time ; they thought she would do the same now, but 
they were mistaken. Winter came and w T ent, as did the 
spring, and even when June arrived they had seen and 
heard nothing of her. 

She was evidently comfortable somewhere; and the 
Coupeaus, feeling certain that she would never return, had 
sold her bed : it was very much in their way and they 
could drink up the six francs it brought. 

One morning Virginie called to Gervaise as the latter 
passed the shop, and begged her to come in and help a 
little, as Lantier had had two friends to supper the night 


340 


l’assommoir. 


before; and Gervaise washed the dishes while Lantie/ 
sat in the shop smoking. Presently, he said : 

“Oh! Gervaise, I saw Nana the other night.” 

Virginie, who was behind the counter, opening and 
shutting drawer after drawer, with a face that lengthened 
as she found each empty, shook her fist at him indignantly. 

She had begun to think he saw Nana very often. She 
did not speak, but Madame Lerat, who had just come 
in, said, with a significant look : 

“And where did you see her?” 

“Oh! in a carriage,” answered Lantier, with a laugh. 
“And I was on the sidewalk.” He turned toward Ger- 
vaise and went on : 

“Yes, she was in a carriage, dressed beautifully. I did 
not recognize her at first, but she kissed her hand to me. 
Her friend this time must be a vicomte at the least. She 
looked as happy as a queen.” 

Gervaise wiped the plate in her hands, rubbing it long 
and carefully, though it had long since been dry. Vir- 
ginie, with wrinkled brows, wondered how she could pay 
two notes which fell due the next day ; while Lantier, fat 
and hearty from the sweets he had devoured, asked him- 
self if these drawers and jars would be filled up again, or 
if the ruin he anticipated was so near at hand that he 
should be compelled to pull up stakes at once. There 
was not another praline for him to crunch, not even a 
gum-drop. 

When Gervaise went back to her room she found 
Coupeau sitting on the side of the bed weeping and 


l’assommoie. 341 

moaning. She took a chair .near by and looked at him, 
without speaking. 

“I have news for you,” she said at last. “Your 
daughter has been seen. She is happy and comfortable. 
Would that I were in her place!” 

Coupeau was looking down on the floor intently. He 
raised his head and said, with an idiotic laugh : 

“ Do as you please, my dear ; don’t let me be any 
hindrance to you. When you are dressed up, you are not 
bo bad-looking after all.” 




342 


L ASSOMMOIE. 


CHAPTER XII, 


POVERTY AND DEGRADATION. 


HE weather was intensely cold about the middle of 



-L January. Gervaise had not been able to pay her 
rent, due on the first. She had had little or no work, and 
consequently no food to speak of. The sky was dark and 
gloomy, and the air heavy with the coming of a storm. 
Gervaise thought it barely possible that her husband 
might come in with a little money. After all everything 
is possible, and he had said that he would work. Ger- 
vaise after a little, by dint of dwelling on this thought, 
had come to consider it a certainty. Yes, Coupeau would 
bring home some money, and they would have a good, 
hot, comforting dinner. As to herself, she had given up 
trying to get work, for no one would have her. This did 
not much trouble her however, for she had arrived at 
that point when the mere exertion of moving had become 
intolerable to her. She now lay stretched on the bed, 
for she was warmer there. 

Gervaise called it a bed. In reality it was only a pile 
of straw in the corner, for she had sold her bed and all 
her furniture. She occasionally swept the straw together 
with a broom, and after all it was neither dustier nor 
dirtier than everything else in the place. On this straw 
therefore, Gervaise now lay, with her eyes wide open. 


l’assommoir. 


343 


How long, she wondered, could people live without eating ? 
She was not hungry, but there was a strange weight at the 
pit of her stomach. Her haggard eyes wandered about 
the room in search of anything she could sell. She 
vaguely wished some one would buy the spider-webs which 
hung in all the corners. She knew them to be very good 
for cuts, but she doubted if they had any market value. 

Tired of this contemplation, she got up and took her 
one chair to the window, and looked out into the dingy 
court-yard. 

Her landlord had been there that day, and declared he 
would only wait one week for his money, and if it were 
not forthcoming, he would turn them into the street. It 
drove her wild to see him stand wrapped in his heavy 
overcoat, and tell her so coldly that he should pack her 
off at once. She hated him with a vindictive hatred, as 
she did her fool of a husband, and the Lorilleux and 
Poissons. In fact she hated every one on that especial day. 

Unfortunately, people can’t live without eating and 
before the woman’s famished eyes floated visions of food. 
Not of dainty little dishes. She had long since cea»*ed to 
care for those, and eat all she could get without being in 
the least fastidious in regard to its quality. When she 
had a little money, she bought a bullock’s heart, o* a bit 
of cheese, or some beans, and sometimes she begged from 
a restaurant, and made a sort of panada of the crusts they 
gave her, which she cooked on a neighbor’s stove. She 
was quite willing to dispute with a dog for a bone. Once, 
the thought of such things would have disgusted her, but 


344 


l’assommoie. 


at that time she did not — for three days in succession — go 
without a morsel of food. She remembered how, last week, 
Coupeau had stolen a half loaf of bread, and sold it, or 
rather exchanged it for liquor. 

She sat at the window looking at the pale sky, and 
finally fell asleep. She dreamed that she was out in a 
snow-storm, and could not find her way home. She 
awoke with a start, and saw that night was coming on. 
How long the days are when one’s stomach is empty ! She 
waited for Coupeau, and the relief he would bring. 

The clock struck in the next room. Could it be 
possible? Was it only three? Then she began to cry. 
How could she ever wait until seven ! After another half 
hour of suspense, she started up. Yes, they might say 
what they pleased, but she, at least, would try if she could 
not borrow ten sous from the Lorilleux. 

There was a continual borrowing of small sums in this 
corridor during the winter; but no matter what was the 
emergency, no one ever dreamed of applying to the 
Lorilleux. Gervaise summoned all her courage, and 
rapped at their door. 

“ Come in ! ” cried a sharp voice. 

How good it was there ! warm and bright with the 
glow of the forge. A nd Gervaise smelled the soup, too ; 
and it made her feel faint and sick. 

“Ah! it is you, is it?” said Madame Lorilleux. 
“ What do you want? ” 

Gervaise hesitated. The application for ten sous stuck 
in her throat, because she saw Boche seated by the stove. 


i/assommoir 


345 


“What do you want?” asked Lorilleux, in his turn. 

“ Have you seen Coupeau ? ” stammered Gervaise. “ I 
thought he was here.” 

His sister answered with a sneer, that they rarely saw 
Coupeau. They were not rich enough to offer him as 
many glasses of wine as he. wanted in these days. 

Gervaise stammered out a disconnected sentence. 

“ He had promised to come home. She needed food, 
she needed money.” 

A profound silence followed. Madame Lorilleux 
fanned her fire, and her husband bent more closely over 
his work, while Boche smiled with an expectant air. 

“If I could have ten sous,” murmured Gervaise. 

The silence continued. 

“If you would lend them to me,” said Gervaise, “I 
would give them back in the morning.” 

Madame Lorilleux turned and looked her full in the 
face, thinking to herself that if she yielded once, that the 
next day it would be twenty sous, and who could tell 
where it would stop ? 

“ But, my dear,” she cried, “ you know we have no 
money and no prospect of any ; otherwise, of course, we 
would oblige you.” 

“ Certainly,” said Lorilleux, “ the heart is willing, but 
the pockets are empty.” 

Gervaise bowed her head, but she did not leave instantly. 
She looked at the gold wire on which her sister-in-law 
was working, and at that in the hands of Lorilleux, and 
thought that it would take a mere scrap to give her a good 
22 


346 


l’assommoir. 


dinner. On that day the room was very dirty and filled 
with charcoal dust, but she saw it resplendent with riches 
like the shop of a money-changer, and she said once more 
ia a low, soft voice : 

“ I will bring back the ten sous. I will, indeed ! ” 
Tears were in her eyes, but she was determined not to say 
that she had eaten nothing for twenty-four hours. 

“ I can’t tell you how much I need it,” she continued. 

The husband and wife exchanged a look. Wooden 
Legs begging at their door I Well! well! who would 
have thought it? Why had they not known it was she, 
when they rashly called out, “Come in?” Really, they 
could not allow such people to cross their threshold : there 
was too much that was valuable in the room. They had 
several times distrusted Gervaise, she looked about so 
qucerlv, and now they would not take their eyes off of 
her. 

Gervaise went t ’ard Lorilleux as she spoke. 

“Take care!” he said, roughly. “You will carry off 
some of the particles of gold on the soles of your shoes. 
It looks really as if you had greased them ! ” 

Gervaise drew back. She leaned against an 6tag6re for 
a moment, and seeing that her sister-in-law’s eyes were 
fixed on her hands she opened them and said in a gentle, 
weary voice — the voice of a woman who has ceased to 
struggle : 

“ I have taken nothing. You can look for yourself.” 

And she went away ; the warmth of the place and the 
smell of the soup were unbearable. 


l’assommoir. 


347 


The Lorilleux shrugged their shoulders as the door 
closed. They hoped they had seen the last of her face. 
She had brought all her misfortunes on her own liead, 
and she had therefore no right to expect any assistance 
from them. Boche joined in these animadversions, and 
all three considered themselves avenged for the blue shop 
aud all the rest. 

“I know her!” said Madame Lorilleux. “If I had 
lent her the ten sous she wanted, she would have spent it 
in liquor.” 

Gervaise crawled down the corridor with slip-shod shoes 
and slouching shoulders, but at her door she hesitated: 
she could not go in : she was afraid. She would walk up 
and down a little — that would keep her warm. As she 
passed, she looked in at Father Bru, but to her surprise he 
was not there ; and she asked herself, with a pang of jeal- 
ousy, if any one could possibly have asked him out to dine. 
When she reached the Bijards, she -ard a groan. She 
went in. 

“ What is the matter? ” she said. 

The room was very clean, and in perfect order. Lalie 
that very morning had swept and arranged everything. 
In vain did the cold blast of poverty blow through that 
chamber, and bring with it dirt and disorder. Lalie was 
always there ; she cleaned, and scrubbed, and gave to every- 
thing a look of gentility. There was little money, but much 
cleanliness within those four walls. 

The two children were cutting out pictures in a corner, 
but Lalie was in bed, lying very straight and pale, with 
the sheet pulled up to her chin. 


348 


i/a ssommoir. 


“What is the matter?” asked Gervaise, anxiously. 

Lalie slowly lifted her white lids, and tried to speak. 

“ Nothing,” she said, faintly, “ nothing, I assure you ! ” 
Then, as her eyes closed, she added : 

“ I am only a little lazy, and am taking my ease.” 

But her face bore the traces of such frightful agony, 
that Gervaise fell on her knees by the side of the bed. 
She knew that the child had had a cough for a month, and 
she saw the blood trickling from the corners of her mouth. 

“ It is not my fault,” Lalie murmured ; “ I thought I 
was strong enough, and I washed the floor ; I could not 
finish the windows, though. Everything but those are 
clean. But I was so tired that I was obliged to lie 
down — ” 

She interrupted herself to say : 

“ Please see that my children are not cutting themselves 
with the scissors.” 

She started at the sound of a heavy step on the stairs ; 
her father noisily pushed open the door. As usual he had 
drank too much, and in his eyes blazed the lurid flames 
kindled by alcohol. 

When he saw Lalie lying down, he walked to the 
corner and took up the long whip, from which he slowly 
unwound the lash. 

“This is a good joke!” he said. “The idea of your 
daring to go to bed at this hour. Come! up with you !” 

He snapped the whip over the bed, and the child 
murmured, softly: 

“Do not strike me, papa; I am sure you will be sorry 
if you do. Do not strike me!” 


. - - • . f, 4. ■ _ K, > 

l’assommoir. 349 

“Up with you ! ” he cried ; “up with you!” 

Then she answered, faintly : 

“ I cannot, for I am dying.” 

Gervaise had snatched the whip from Bijard, who stood 
*with his under jaw dropped, glaring at his daughter. 
What could the little fool mean? Who ever heard of a 
child dying like that when she had not even been sick? 
Oh! she was lying! 

“You will see that I am telling you the truth,” she 
replied. “I did not tell you as long as I could help it. 
Be kind to me now, papa, and say good-bye as if you 
loved me.” 

Bijard passed his hand over his eyes. She did look 
very strangely — her face was that of a grown woman. 
The presence of Death in that cramped room sobered him 
suddenly. He looked around with the air of a man who 
had been suddenly awakened from a dream. He saw the 
two little opes clean and happy, and the room neat and 
orderly. 

He fell into a chair. 

“Dear little mother!” he murmured; “dear little 
mother!” 

This was all he said ; but it was very sweet to Lalie, 
who had never been spoiled by over praise. She com- 
forted him. She told him how grieved she was, to go 
away and leave him, before she had entirely brought up 
her children. He would watch over them, would he not? 
And in her dying voice she gave him some little details 
in regard to their clothes. He — the alcohol having re- 
gained its power — listened with round eyes of wonder. 


350 


l’assommoir. 


After a long silence, Lalie spoke again : 

“We owe four francs and seven sous to the baker. He 
must be paid. Madame Gaudron has au iron that belongs 
to us; you must not forget it. This evening I was not 
able to make the soup, but there are bread and cold 
potatoes.” 

As long as she breathed, the poor little mite continued 
to be the mother of the family. She died because her 
breast was too small to contain so great a heart; and that 
he lost this precious treasure, was entirely her father’s I 
fault. He, wretched creature! had kicked her mother to 
death, and had now just as surely, murdered his daughter. 

Gervaise tried to keep back her tears. She held La- 
lie’s hands, and as the bed-clothes slipped away, she re- 
arranged them. In doing so, she caught a glimpse of the 
poor little figure. The sight might have drawn tears 
from a stone. Lalie wore only a tiny chemise over her 
bruised and bleeding flesh — marks of the lash striped her 
sides — a livid spot was on her right arm — and from head 
to foot she was one bruise. 

Gervaise was paralyzed at the sight. She wondered if 
there were a God above, how He could have allowed the 
child to stagger under so heavy a cross. 

“Madame Coupeau,” murmured the child, trying to 
draw the sheet over her. She was ashamed — ashamed 
for her father. 

Gervaise could not stay there. The child was fast sink- 
ing. Her eyes were fixed on her little ones, who sat in 
the corner still cutting out their pictures. The room was 


l’aSSOM MOIE. 


351 


growing dark, and Gervaise fled from it. All ! what an 
awful thing life was! And how gladly would she throw 
herself under the wheels of an omnibus, if that might 
end it! 

Almost unconsciously Gervaise took her way to the 
shop where her husband worked, or rather pretended to 
work. She would wait for him and get the money before 
he had a chance to spend it. 

It was a very cold corner where she stood. The sounds 
of the carriages and footsteps were strangely muffled by 
reason of the fast-falling snow. Gervaise stamped her feet 
to keep them from freezing. The people who passed 
offered few distractions, for they hurried by with their 
coat-collars turned up to their ears. But Gervaise saw 
several women watching the door of the factory quite as 
anxiously as herself — they were wives who, like herself, 
probably wished to get hold of a portion of their husbands' 
wages. She did not know them, but it required no intro- 
duction to understand their business. 

The door of the factory remained firmly shut for some 
time. Then it opened to allow the egress of one work- 
man — then two — three followed, but these were probably 
those, who well behaved, took their wages home to their 
wives, for they neither retreated nor started when they saw 
the little crowd. One woman fell on a pale little fellow, 
and plunging her hand into his pocket, carried off every sou 
of her husband’s earnings, while he, left without enough to 
pay for a pint of wine, went off down the street almost 
weeping. 


352 


l’assom moir. 


Some other men appeared, and one turned back to warn 
a comrade, who came gayly and fearlessly out, having put 
his silver piepes in his shoes. In vain did his wife look 
for them in his pockets — in vain did she scold and coax — 
he had no money, he declared. 

Then came another noisy group, elbowing each other 
in their haste to reach a cabaret, where they could drink 
away their week’s wages. These fellows were followed by 
some shabby men who were swearing under their breath 
at the trifle they had received — having been tipsy and 
absent more than half the week. 

But the saddest sight of all was the grief of a meek 
little woman in black, whose husband, a tall, good-looking 
fellow, pushed her roughly aside, and walked off down 
the street with his boon companions, leaving her to go 
home alone, which she did, weeping her very heart out as 
she went. 

Gervaise still stood watching the entrance. "Where was 
Coupeau ? She asked some of the men, who teased her by 
declaring that he had just gone by the back door. She 
saw by this time that Coupeau had lied to her; that he 
had not been at work that day. She also saw that there 
was no dinner for her. There was not a shadow of hope 
— nothing but hunger, and darkness, and cold. 

She toiled up La Rue des Poissonnters, when she sud- 
denly heard Coupeau’s voice, and glancing in at the 
window of a wine-shop, she saw him drinking with Me& 
Bottes, who had had the luck to marry the previou 
summer a woman with some money. He was now,. 


7 


l’assommoir. 353 

therefore, well clothed and fed, and altogether a happy 
mortal, and Coupeau’s admiration. Gervaise laid her 
hand on her husband’s shoulder as he left the cabaret. 

“ I am hungry,” she said, softly. 

“ Hungry, are you ? Well, then, eat your fist, and keep 
the other for to-morrow/’ 

“Shall I steal a loaf of bread?” she asked, in a dull, 
dreary tone. 

Mes-Bottes smoothed his chin, and said in a concil- 
iatory voice : 

“No, no! Don’tdo that: it is against the law. But 
if a woman manages — ” 

Coupeau interrupted him with a coarse laugh. 

“ Yes ; a woman, if she had any sense, could always 
get along, and it was her own fault if she starved.” 

And the two men walked on toward the outer Boule- 
vard. Gervaise followed them. Again she said : 

“ I am hungry. You know I have had nothing to eat. 
You must find me something.” 

He did not answer, and she repeated her words in a 
tone of agony. 

“ Good God ! ” he exclaimed, turning upon her furi- 
ously. “What can I do? I have nothing. Be off with 
you, unless you want to be beaten.” 

He lifted his fist — she recoiled and said, with set-teeth : 

“Very well, then; I will go and find some man who 
has a sou.” 

Coupeau pretended to consider this an excellent joke. 
Yes, of course, she could make a conquest; by gaslight 


354 


L ASSOMMOIR. 


she was still passably good-looking. If she succeeded ha 
advised her to dine at the Capucin, where there was very 
good eating. 

She turned away with livid lips; he called after her: 

“ Bring some dessert with you, for I love cake. And, 
perhaps, you can induce your friend to give me an old 
coat, for I swear it is cold to-night.” 

Gervaise, with this infernal mirth ringing in her ears, 
hurried down the street. She was determined to take 
this desperate step. She had only a choice between that 
and theft, and she considered that she had a right to 
dispose of herself as she pleased. The question of right 
and wrong did not present itself very clearly to her 
eyes. “ When one is starving is hardly the time,” she 
said to herself, “to philosophize.” She walked slowly 
up and down the Boulevard. This part of Paris was 
crowded now with new buildings, between whose sculp- j 
tured fa$ades ran narrow lanes leading to haunts of 
squalid misery, which were cheek-by-jowl with splendor 
and wealth. _ 

It seemed strange to Gervaise, that among this crowd j 
who elbowed her, there was not one good Christian to | 
divine her situation, and slip some sous into her hand. 
Her head was dizzy, and her limbs would hardly bear** 5, 
her weight. At this hour ladies with hats, and well- 
dressed gentlemen, who lived in these fine new houses, 
were mingled with the people — with the men and women 
whose faces were pale and sickly from the vitiated air of 
the workshops in which they passed their lives. Another 


V / 

l’assommoir. 355 

clay of toil was over, but the days came too often and 
were too long. One hardly had time to turn over in one’s 
sleep, when the everlasting grind began again. 

Gervaise went with the crowd. No one looked at her, 
for the men were all hurrying home to their dinner. Sud- 
denly she looked up and beheld the Hotel Boncoeur. It 
was empty, the shutters and doors covered with placards, 
and the whole fayade, weather-stained and decaying. It 
was there, in that hotel, that the seeds of her present life 
had been sown. She stood still and looked up at the win- 
dow of the room she had occupied, and recalled her youth 
passed with Lantier, and the manner in which he had left 
her. But she was young then, and soon recovered from 
the blow. This was twenty years ago, and now what was 
she ? 

The sight of the place made her sick, and she turned 
toward Montmartre. She passed crowds of workwomen 
with little parcels in their hands, and children who had 
been sent to the baker’s, carrying four-pound loaves of 
bread as tall as themselves, which looked like shining 
brown dolls. 

By degrees the crowd dispersed, and Gervaise was almost 
alone. Every one was at dinner. She thought how deli- 
cious it would be, to lie down and never rise agaim — to feel 
that all toil was over. And this was the end of her life! 
Gervaise, amid the pangs of hunger, thought of some of 
the fSte days she had known, and remembered that she 
had not always been miserable. Once she was pretty, fair 
and fresh. She had been a kind and admired mistress in 


356 


l’assommoir. 


lier shop. Gentlemen came to it only to see her ; and she 
vaguely wondered where all this youth and this beauty 
had fled. 

Again she looked up : she had reached the abattoirs, 
which were now being torn down ; the fronts were taken 
away, showing the dark holes within, the very stones of 
which reeked with blood. Farther on was the hospital 
with its high, gray walls, with two wings opening out like 
a huge fan. A door in the wall was the terror of the 
whole Quartier — the Door of the Dead it was called — • 
through which all the bodies were carried. 

She hurried past this solid oak door, and went down to 
the railroad-bridge, under which a train had just passed, 
leaving in its rear a floating cloud of smoke. She wished 
she were on that train, which would take her into the coun- 
try, and she pictured to herself open spaces, and the fresh 
air, and expanse of blue sky ; perhaps she could live a new 
life there. 

As she thought this, her weary eyes began to puzzle out 
in the dim twilight the words on a printed hand-bill 
pasted on one of the pillars of the arch. She read one — > 
an advertisement, offering fifty francs for a lost dog. Some 
one must have loved the creature very much. 

Gervaise turned back again. The street-lamps were 
being lighted, and defined long lines of streets and avenues. 
The restaurants were all crowded, and people were eating 
and drinking. Before the Assommoir stood a crowd wait- 
ing their turn, and room within; and as a respectable 
tradesman passed he said, with a shake of the head, that 


l’assommoir. 


357 


'V 


many a man would be drunk that night in Paris. And 
over this scene hung the dark sky, low and clouded. 

Gervaise wished she had a few sous : she would in that 
case have gone into this place, and drank until she ceased 
to feel hungry ; and through the window she watched the 
still, with an angry consciousness that all her misery and 
all her pain came from that. If she had never touched a 
drop of liquor all might have been so different. 

She started from her reverie; this was the hour of which 
she must take advantage. Men had dined and were com- 
paratively amiable. She looked around her, and toward 
the trees where — under the leafless branches— she saw more 
than one female figure. Gervaise watched them, deter- 
mined to do what they did. Her heart was in her throat : 
it seemed to her that she was dreaming a bad dream. 

She stood for some fifteen minutes; none of the men who 
passed looked at her. Finally she moved a little and 
spoke to one who, with his hands in his pockets, was 
whistling as he walked. 

“ Sir,” she said, in a low voice, “ please listen to me.” 

The man looked at her from head to foot, and went on 
whistling louder than before. 

Gervaise grew bolder. She forgot everything except 
the pangs of hunger. The women under the trees walked 
up and down with the regularity of wild animals in a 
cage. 

“ Sir,” she said again, “ please listen.” 

But the man went on. She walked toward the Hotel 
de Boncceur again, past the hospital, which was now 


358 


l’assom moie. 


brilliantly lighted. There she turned and went b*eic .over 
the same ground — the dismal ground between the slaughter- 
houses and the place where the sick lay dying. With 
these two places she seemed to feel bound by some myste- 
rious tie. 

“ Sir, please listen ! ” 

She saw her shadow on the ground as she stood near a 
street lamp. It was a grotesque shadow — grotesque be- 
cause of her ample proportions. Her limp had become, 
with time and her additional weight, a very decided de- 
formity, and as she moved, the lengthening shadow of her- 
self seemed to be creeping along the sides of the houses 
with bows and courtesies of mock reverence. Never 
before had she realized the change in herself. She was 
fascinated by this shadow. It was very droll, she thought* 
and she wondered if the men did not think so too. 

“ Sir, please listen ! ” 

It was growing late. Man after man, in a beastly state 
of intoxication, reeled past her; quarrels and disputes 
filled the air. 

Gervaise walked on, half asleep. She was conscious ol 
little except that she was starving. She wondered where 
her daughter was, and what she was eating, but it was too 
much trouble to think, and she shivered and crawled on. 
As she lifted her face she felt the cutting wind, accompa- 
nied by the snow, fine and dry like gravel. The storm 
had come. 

People were hurrying past her, but she saw one man 
walking slowly. She went towards him. 


359 


l’assommoib. 

“ Sir, please listen ! ” 

The man stopped. He did not seem to notice what 
she said, but extended his hand and murmured in a lovr 
voice — — 

“ Charity, if you please ! ” 

The two looked at each other. Merciful heavens ! It 
was Father Bru begging, and Madame Coupeau doing 
worse. They stood looking at each other — equals in 
misery. The aged workman had been trying to make up 
his mind all the evening to beg, and the first person he 
stopped was a woman as poor as himself ! This was in- 
deed the irony of Fate. Was it not a pity to have toiled 
for fifty years, and then to beg his bread ? To have been 
one of the most flourishing laundresses in Paris, and then 
to make her bed in the gutter ? They looked at each other 
once more, and without a word, each went their own way 
through the fast falling snow, which blinded Gervaise as 
she struggled on, the wind wrapping her thin skirts 
around her legs so that she could hardly walk. 

Suddenly an absolute whirlwind struck her and bore her 
breathless and helpless along — she did not even know in 
what direction. When at last she was able to open her 
eyes, she could see nothing through the blinding snow, 
but she heard a step and the outlines of a man’s figure. 
She snatched him by the blouse. 

“ Sir,” she said, “ please listen.” 

The man turned. It was Goujet. 

Ah ! what had she done to be thus tortured and humil- 
iated? Was God in heaven an angry God always? This 


360 


l’assommoir. 


was the last (lreg of bitterness in her cup. She saw her 
shadow : her limp, she felt, made her walk like an intox- 
icated woman, which was indeed hard, when she had not 
swallowed a drop. 

Goujet looked at her, while the snow whitened his 
yellow beard. 

“ Come ! ” he said. 

And he walked on, she following him. Neither spoke. 

Poor Madame Goujet had died in October of acute 
rheumatism, and her son continued to reside in the same 
apartment. He had this night been sitting with a sick 
friend. 

He entered, lighted a lamp, and turned toward Ger- 
vaise, who stood humbly on the threshold. 

“Come in!” he said, in a low voice, as if his mother 
could have heard him. 

• The first room was that of Madame Goujet, which was 
unchanged since her death. Near the window stood her 
frame, apparently ready for the old lady. The bed was 
carefully made, and she could have slept there had she 
returned from the Cemetery to spend a night with her son. 
The room was clean, sweet and orderly. 

“ Come in,” repeated Goujet. 

Gervaise entered with the air of a woman who is startled 
at finding herself in a respectable place. He was pale 
and trembling. They crossed his mother’s room softly, 
and when Gervaise stood within his own, he closed the 
door. 

It was the same room in which he had lived ever since 


l’assommoie. 


361 


she knew him — small and almost virginal in its simplicity. 
Gervaise dared not move. 

Goujet snatched her in his arms, but she pushed him 
away faintly. 

The stove was still hot and a dish was on the top of it. 
Gervaise looked toward it. Goujet understood. He 
placed the dish on the table, poured her out some wine 
and cut a slice of bread. 

“ Thank you,” she said. “ How good you are ! ” 

She trembled to that degree, that she could hardly hold 
her fork. Hunger gave her eyes the fierceness of a fam- 
ished beast, and to her head the tremulous motion of 
senility. After eating a potato she burst into tears, but 
continued to eat, with the tears streaming down her cheeks 
and her chin quivering. 

“Will you have some more bread?” he asked. 

She said “No;” she said “ Yes ;” she did not know what 
she said. 

And he stood looking at her in the clear light of the 
lamp. How old and shabby she was! The heat was 
melting the snow on her hair and clothing, and water was 
dripping from all her garments. Her hair was very gray 
and roughened by the wind. Where was the pretty white 
throat he so well remembered? He recalled the days when 
he first knew her, when her skin was so delicate, and she 
stood at her table, briskly moving the hot irons to and fro. 
He thought of the time when she had come to the Forge, 
and of the joy with which he would have welcomed her 
then to his room. And now she was there ! 

23 


362 


l’assommoie. 


s 

She finished her bread amid great silent tears, and then 
rose to her feet. 

Goujet took her hand. 

“ I love you, Madame Gervaise ; I love you still,” he 
cried. 

“ Do not say that,” she exclaimed ; “ for it is impossi- 
ble.” 

He leaned toward her. 

“Will you allow me to kiss you?” he asked, respect- 
fully. 

She did not know what to say, so great was her emotion. 

He kissed her, gravely and solemnly, and then pressed 
his lips upon her gray hair. He had never kissed any 
one since his mother’s death, and Gervaise was all that 
remained to him of the Past. 

He turned away, and throwing himself on his bed, 
sobbed aloud. Gervaise could not endure this. She 
exclaimed : 

“I love you, Monsieur Goujet, and I understand, 
farewell ! ” 

And she rushed through Madame Goujet’s room, and 
then through the street to her home. The house was all 
dark, and the arched door into the court-yard looked like 
huge, gaping jaws. Could this be the house where she 
once desired to reside? Had she been deaf in those days, 
not to have heard that wail of despair which pervaded the 
place from top to bottom? From the day when she first 
set her foot within the house she had steadily gone down 
hill. 


l’assommoik. 


363 


Yes, it was a frightful way to live — so many people 
herded together, to become the prey of cholera or vice. 
She looked at the court-yard, and fancied it a Cemetery 
surrounded by high walls. The snow lay white within 
it. She stepped over the usual stream from the dyer’s, but 
this time the stream was black, and opened for itself a path 
through the white snow. The stream was the color of her 
thoughts. But she remembered when both were rosy. 

As she toiled up the six long flights in the darkness, she 
laughed aloud. She recalled her old dream — to work 
quietly — have plenty to eat — a little home to herself, where 
she could bring up her children — never to be beaten — and 
to die in her bed ! It was droll how things had turned out. 
She worked no more; she had nothing to eat; she lived 
amid dirt and disorder. Her daughter had gone to the 
bad, and her husband beat her whenever he pleased. As 
for dying in her bed, she had none. Should she throw 
herself out of the window and find one on the pavement 
below? 

She had not been unreasonable in her wishes, surely. 
She had not asked of Heaven an income of thirty thousand 
francs, nor a carriage and horses. This was a, queer world ! 
And then she laughed again, as she remembered that she 
had once said, that after she had worked for twenty years, 
she should retire into the country. 

Yes, she would go into the country, for she should soon 
have her little green corner in P&re La Chaise. 

Her poor brain was disturbed. She had bidden an 
eternal farewell to Goujet. They would never see each 


364 l’assommoir. 

other again. All was over between them — Love and 

iendship too. 

As she passed the Bijards, she looked in and saw Lalie 
lying dead, happy and at peace. It was well with the 
child. 

“She is lucky,” muttered Gervaise. 

At this moment she saw a gleam of light under the 
undertaker’s door. She threw it wide open, with a wild 
desire that he should take her as well as Lalie. Bazonge 
had come in that night more tipsy than usual, and had 
thrown his hat and cloak in the corner, while he lay in 
the middle of the floor. 

He started up, and called out: 

“Shut that door! And don’t stand there — it is too cold. 
What do you want?” 

Then Gervaise, with arms outstretched, not knowing or 
caring what she said, began to entreat him with passionate 
vehemence : 

“Oh! take me,” she cried; “I can bear it no longer. 
Take me, I implore you ! ” 

And she knelt before him, a lurid light blazing in her 
haggard eyes. 

Father Bazonge, with garments stained by the dust of 
the Cemetery, seemed to her as glorious as the sun. But 
the old man, yet half asleep, rubbed his eyes and could not 
understand her. 

“What are you talking about?” he muttered. 

“Take me,” repeated Gervaise, more earnestly than 
before. “ Do you remember one night when I rapped on 


l’assommoir. 


365 


the partition? Afterwards I said I did not, but I was 
stupid then, and afraid. But I am not afraid now. Here, 
take my hands — they are not cold with terror. Take me, 
and put me to sleep, for I have but this one wish now.” 

Bazonge, feeling that it was not proper to argue with a 
lady, said : 

“ You are right. I have buried three women to-day, 
who would each have given me a jolly little sum out of 
gratitude, if they could have put their hands in their 
pockets. But you see, my dear woman, it is not such an 
easy thing you are asking of me.” 

“ Take me ! ” cried Gervaise. “ Take me ! I want to 
go away ! ” 

“ But there is a certain little operation first, you know — ” 
And he pretended to choke and rolled up his eyes. 

Gervaise staggered to her feet. He too rejected her and 
would have nothing to do with her. She crawled into her 
room and threw herself on her straw. She was sorry she 
had eaten anything and delayed the work of starvation. 


366 


l’assommoik. 


CHAPTER XIII. 

THE HOSPITAL. 

T HE next day Gervaise received ten francs from her 
son fitienne, who had steady work. He occasion- 
ally sent her a little money, knowing that there was none 
too much of that commodity in his poor mother’s pocket. 

She cooked her dinner and ate it alone, for Coupeau did 
not appear, nor did she hear a word of his whereabouts 
for nearly a week. Finally a printed paper was given 
her which frightened her at first, but she was soon relieved 
to find that it simply conveyed to her the information that 
her husband was at Sainte- Anne’s again. 

Gervaise was in no way disturbed. Coupeau knew the 
way back well enough ; he would return in due season. 
She soon heard that he and Mes-Bottes had spent the 
whole week in dissipation, and she even felt a little angry 
that they had not seen fit to offer her a glass of wine with 
all their feasting and carousing. 

On Sunday, as Gervaise had a nice little repast ready 
for the evening, she decided that an excursion would give 
her an appetite. The letter from the asylum stared her 
in the face and worried her. The snow had melted, the 
sky was gray and soft, and the air was fresh. She started 
at noon, as the days were now short and Sainte- Anne’s was 
a long distance off ; but as there were a great many people 
in the street, she was amused. 


l’assommoir. 


367 


When she reached the hospital she heard a strange story. 
It seems that Coupeau, how no one could say, had escaped 
from the hospital, and had been found under the bridge. 
He had thrown himself over the parapet, declaring that 
armed men were driving him with the point of their 
bayonets. 

One of the nurses took Gervaise up the stairs. At the 
head she heard terrific howls which froze the marrow r- 
her bones. 

“It is he ! ” said the nurse. 

“ He ? Whom do you mean ? ” 

“ I mean your husband. He has gone on like that ever 
since day before yesterday ; and he dances all the time, too. 
You will see!” 

Ah ! what a sight it was ! The cell was cushioned from 
the floor to the ceiling, and on the floor were mattresses on 
which Coupeau danced and howled in his ragged blouse. 
The sight was terrific. He threw himself wildly against 
the window and then to the other side of the cell, sha- 
king his hands as if he wished to break them off, and fling 
them in defiance at the whole world. These wild motions 
are sometimes imitated, but no oue who has not seen the 
real and terrible sight, can imagine its horror. 

“ What is it? What is it?” gasped Gervaise. 

A house-surgeon, a fair and rosy youth, was sitting, 
calmly taking notes. The case was a peculiar one, and had 
excited a great deal of attention among the physicians 
attached to the hospital. 

“You can stay a while,” he said, “but keep very quiet. 
He will not recognize you, however.” 


l’assommoir. 


368 

Coupeau, in fact, did not seem to notice his wife, who 
had not yet seen his face. She went nearer. Was that 
really he? She never would have known him, with his 
blood-shot eyes and distorted features. His skin was so 
hot that the air was heated around him, and was as if it 
were varnished — shining and damp with perspiration. 
He was dancing, it is true, but as if on burning plow- 
shares : not a motion seemed to be voluntary. 

Gervaise went to the young surgeon, who was beating 
a tune on the back of his chair. 

tl Will he get well, sir?” she said. 

The surgeon shook his head. 

“ What is he saying? Hark ! He is talking now.” 

“Just be quiet, will you?” said the young man, “1 
wish to listen.” 

Coupeau was speaking fast, and looking all about, as 
if he were examining the underbrush in the Bois de 
Vincennes. 

“ Where is it now ?” he exclaimed ; and then straighten- 
ing himself, he looked off into the distance. 

“It is a fair,” he exclaimed, “and lanterns in the trees, 
and the water is running everywhere; fountains, cascades, 
and all sorts of things.” 

He drew a long breath, as if enjoying the delicious 
freshness of the air. 

By degrees, however, his features contracted again with 
pain, and he ran quickly around the wall of his cell. 

“ More trickery,” he howled. “ I knew it ! ” 

He started back with a hoarse cry ; his teeth chattered 
with terror. 


l’assommoir. 


X 

369 

u No, I will not throw myself over ! All that water 
would drown me ! No, I will not ! ” 

“ I am going,” said Gervaise to the surgeon. “ I 
cannot stay another moment.” 

She was very pale. Coupeau kept up his infernal 
dance while she tottered down the stairs, followed by his 
hoarse voice. 

How good it was to breathe the fresh air outside ! 

That evening every one in the huge house in which 
Coupeau had lived talked of his strange disease. The 
Concierge, crazy to hear the details, condescended to invite 
Gervaise to take a glass of cordial, forgetting that he had 
turned a cold shoulder upon her for many weeks. 

Madame Lorilleux and Madame Poisson were both there 
also. Boche had heard of a cabinet-maker who had 
danced the polka until he died. He had drank absinthe. 

Gervaise finally, not being able to make them under- 
stand her description, asked for the table to be moved, and 
there, in the centre of the lodge, imitated her husband 
making frightful leaps and horrible contortions. 

“ Yes, that was what he did ! ” 

And then everybody said it was not possible that a 
man could keep up such violent exercise for even three 
hours. 

Gervaise told them to go and see, if they did not believe 
her. But Madame Lorilleux declared that nothing would 
induce her to set foot within Sainte-Anne’s, and Virginie, 
whose face had grown longer and longer with each suc- 
cessive week that the shop got deeper into debt, contented 


370 


l’as sommoie. 


herself with murmuring, that life was not always gay — in 
fact, in her opinion, it was a pretty dismal thing. As the 
wine was finished, Gervaise bade them all good-night. 
When she was not speaking, she had sat with fixed, dis- 
tended eyes. Coupeau was before them all the time. 

The next day she said to herself when she rose that 
she would never go to the hospital again : she could do 
no good. But as mid-day arrived, she could stay away 
no longer and started forth, without a thought of the 
length of the walk, so great were her mingled curiosity 
and anxiety. 

She was not obliged to ask a question ; she heard the 
frightful sounds at the very foot of the stairs. The 
keeper, who was carrying a cup of tisane across the corri- 
dor, stopped when he saw her. 

“ He keeps it up well ! ” he said. 

She went in, but stood at the door, as she saw there 
were people there. The young surgeon had surrendered 
his chair to an elderly gentleman wearing several decora- 
tions. He was the chief physician of the hospital, and his 
eyes were like gimlets. 

Gervaise tried to see Coupeau over the bald head of 
that gentleman. Her husband was leaping and dancing 
with undiminished strength. The perspiration poured 
more constantly from his brow now, that was all. His 
feet had worn holes in the mattress with his steady tramp 
from window to wall. 

Gervaise asked herself why she had come back. She 
had been accused the evening before of exaggerating the 


l’assommoie. 


371 


picture, but she had not made it strong enough. The 
next time she imitated him she could do it better. She 
listened to what the physicians were saying: the house- 
surgeon was giving the details of the night, with many 
words which she did not understand ; but she gathered 
that Coupeau had gone on in the same way all night. 
Finally, he said this was the wife of the patient. Where- 
upon the surgeon-in-chief turned and interrogated her with 
the air of a police judge. 

“Did this man’s father drink?” 

“A little, sir. Just as everybody does. He fell from 
a roof, when he had been drinking, and was killed.” 

“Did his mother drink?” 

“Yes, sir — that is, a little nowand then. He had a 
brother who died in convulsions ; but the others are very 
healthy.” 

The surgeon looked at her, and said, coldly: 

“ You drink, too?” 

Gervaise attempted to defend herself and deny the 
accusation. 

“You drink,” he repeated, “and see to what it leads. 
Some day you will be here, and like this.” 

She leaned against the wall, utterly overcome. The 
physician turned away. He knelt on the mattress and 
carefully watched Coupeau; he wished to see if his feet 
trembled as much as his hands. His extremities vibrated 
as if on wires. The disease was creeping on, and the 
peculiar shivering seemed to be under the skin — it would 
cease for a minute' or two and then begin again. The 


372 


L ’ A S S O M M O I R . 


belly and the shoulders trembled like water just ou the 
point of boiling. 

Coupeau seemed to suffer more than the evening before. 
His complaints were curious and contradictory. A 
million pins were pricking him. There was a weight 
under the skin; a cold, wet animal was crawling over 
him. Then there were other creatures on his shoulder. 

“ I am thirsty,” he groaned; “so thirsty.” 

The house-surgeon took a glass of lemonade from a 
tray and gave it to him. He seized the glass in both 
hands, drank one swallow, spilling the whole of it at the 
same time. He at once spat it out in disgust. 

“ It is brandy ! ” he exclaimed. 

Then the surgeon, on a sign from his chief, gave him 
some water, and Coupeau did the same thing. 

“ It is brandy ! ” he cried. “ Brandy ! Oh, my God ! ” 

For twenty-four hours he had declared that everything 
he touched to his lips was brandy, and with tears begged 
for something else — for it burned his throat, he said. 
Beef-tea was brought to him ; he refused it, saying it 
smelled of alcohol. He seemed to suffer intense and con- 
stant agony from the poison which he vowed was in the 
air. He asked why people were allowed to rub matches 
all the time under his nose, to choke him with their vile 
fumes. 

The physicians watched Coupeau w'ith care and interest. 
The phantoms which had hitherto haunted him by night, 
now appeared before him at midday. He saw spiders’ 
webs hanging from the wall as large as the sails cf a 


l’assommoir. 


373 


man-of-war. Then these webs changed to nets, whose 
meshes were constantly contracting only to enlarge again. 
These nets held black balls, and they, too, swelled and 
shrank. Suddenly he cried out — 

“ The rats ! Oh, the rats ! ” ^ 

The bails had been transformed to rats. The vile beasts 
found their way through the meshes of the nets, and 
swarmed over the mattress and then disappeared as sud- 
denly as they came. 

The rats were followed by a monkey, who went in and 
came out from the wall, each time so near his face, that 
Coupeau started back in disgust. All this vanished in 
the twinkling of an eye. He apparently thought the walls 
were unsteady and about to fall, for he uttered shriek after 
shriek of agony. 

“ Fire ! Fire ! ” he screamed. “ They can’t stand long. 
They are shaking ! Fire ! Fire ! The whole heavens are 
6right with the light ! Help ! Help ! ” 

His shrieks ended in a convulsed murmur. He foamed 
at the mouth. The surgeon-in-chief turned to the assistant. 

“ You keep the temperature at forty degrees?” he 
asked. 

“ Yes, sir.” 

A dead silence ensued. Then the surgeon shrugged his 
shoulders. 

“ Well, continue the same treatment — beef-tea, milk, 
lemonade, and quinine as directed. Do not leave him, and 
send for me if there is any change.” 

And he left the room, Gervaise following close at his 


374 


l’ass ommoir. 


heels, seeking an opportunity of asking him if there was 
no hope. But he stalked down the corridor with so much 
dignity, that she dared not approach him. 

She stood for a moment undecided whether she should 
go back to Coupeau or not, but hearing him begin again 
the lamentable cry for water — 

“ Water, not brandy ! ” 

She hurried on, feeling that she could endure no more 
that day. In the streets the galloping horses made her 
start with a strange fear that all the inmates of Sainte- 
An tie’s were at her heels. She remembered what the 
physician had said — with what terrors he had threatened 
her, and she wondered if she already had the disease. 

When she reached the house the Concierge and all the 
others were waiting, and called her into the lodge. 

“Was Coupeau still alive?” they asked. 

Boche seemed quite disturbed at her answer, as he had 
made a bet that he would not live twenty-four hours. 
Every one was astonished. Madame Lorilleux made a 
mental calculation : 

“Sixty hours,” she said. “His strength was extra- 
ordinary.” 

Then Boche begged Gervaise to show them once more, 
what Coupeau did. 

The demand became general, and it was pointed out to 
her that she ought not to refuse, for there were two neigh- 
bors there who had not seen her representation the night 
previous, and who had come in expressly to witness it. 

They made a space in the centre of the room, and a 
shiver of expectation ran through the little crowd. 


l’assommoie 


375 


Gervaise was very reluctant. She was really afraid — • 
afraid of making herself ill. She finally made the attempt, 
but drew back again hastily. 

No, she could not; it was quite impossible. Every one 
was disappointed, and Virginie went away. 

Then every one began to talk of the Poissons. A 
warrant had been served on them the night before. Poisson 
was to lose his place. As to Lantier he was hovering 
around a woman who thought of taking the shop and 
meant to sell hot tripe. Lantier was in luck as usual. 

As they talked, some one caught sight of Gervaise, and 
pointed her out to the others. She was at the very back 
of the lodge, her feet and hands trembling, imitating 
Coupeau in fact. They spoke to her. She stared wildly 
about as if awaking from a dream, and then left the 
room. 

The next day she left the house at noon, as she had 
done before. And as she entered Sainte-Anne’s she heard 
the same terrific sounds. 

When she reached the cell, she found Coupeau raving 
mad ! He was fighting in the middle of the cell with 
invisible enemies. He tried to hide himself ; he talked and 
he answered, as if there were twenty persons. Gervaise 
watched him with distended eyes. He fancied himself on 
a roof laying down the sheets of zinc. He blew the 
furnace with his mouth, and he went down on his knees, 
and made a motion as if he had soldering irons in his hand. 
He was troubled by his shoes : it seemed as if he thought 
they were dangerous. On the next roofs stood persons 


376 


l’assommoie. 


who insulted him by letting quantities of rats loose. He 
stamped here and there in his desire to kill them, and the 
spiders, too ! he pulled away his clothing to catch the 
creatures who, he said, intended to burrow under his skin. 
In another minute he believed himself to be a locomotive, 
and puffed and panted. He darted toward the window 
and looked down into the street as if he were on a roof. 

“Look!” he said, “there is a travelling circus. I see 
the lions and the panthers making faces at me. And there 
is Clemence. Good God ! man, don’t fire ! ” 

And he gesticulated to the men, who he said were point- 
ing their guns at him. 

He talked incessantly, his voice growing louder and 
louder, higher and higher. 

“Ah ! it is you, is it? but please keep your hair out of 
my mouth.” 

And he passed his hand over his face as if to take away 
the hair. 

“ Who is it?” said the keeper. 

“ My wife, of course.” 

He looked at the wall, turning his back to Gervaise — 
who felt very strangely, and looked at the wall to see if 
she was there ! He talked on. 

“You look very fine. Where did you get that dress? 
Come here and let me arrange it for you a little. You 
devil ! there he is again ! ” 

And he leaped at the wall, but the soft cushions threw 
him back. 

“Whom do you see?” asked the young doctor. 


l’assommoie. 


377 


“Lantier! Lantier!” 

Gervaise could not endure the eyes of the young man, for 
the scene brought back to her so much of her former life. 

Coupeau fancied, as he had been thrown back from the 
wall in front, that he was now attacked in the rear, and 
he leaped over the mattress with the agility of a cat. His 
respiration grew shorter and shorter — his eyes starting 
from their sockets. 

“He is killing her!” he shrieked, “killing her! Just 
see the blood ! ” 

He fell back against the wall, with his hands wide open 
before him, as if he were repelling the approach of some 
frightful object. He uttered two long, low groans, and 
then fell flat on the mattress. 

“ He is dead ! He is dead ! ” moaned Gervaise. 

The keeper lifted Coupeau. No, he. was not dead ; his 
bare feet quivered with a regular motion. The surgeon- 
iu-cliief came mi, bringing two colleagues. The three men 
stood in grave silence watching the man for some time. 
They uncovered him, and Gervaise saw his shoulders and 
back. 

The tremulous motion had now taken complete posses- 
sion of the body as well as the linibs ; and a strange ripple 
ran just under the skin. 

“lie is asleep,” said the surgeon-in-chief, turning to his 
colleagues. 

Coupeau’s eyes were closed, and his face twitched con- 
vulsively. Coupeau might sleep, but his feet did nothing 
of the kind. 

24 


378 


l’aS S OMMOIE, 


Gervaise, seeing the doctors lay their hands on Coupeau’s 
body, wished to do the same. She approached softly, and 
placed her hand on his shoulder, and left it there for a 
minute. 

What was going on there? A river seemed hurrying 
on under that skin. It was the liquor of the Assommoir, 
working like a mole through muscle, nerves, bone and 
marrow. 

The doctors went away, and Gervaise, at the end of an 
another hour, said to the young surgeon : 

“ ITe is dead, sir.” 

But the surgeon, looking at the feet, said: “No,” for 
those poor feet were still dancing. 

Another hour, and yet another passed. Suddenly the 
feet were stiff and motionless, and the young surgeon 
turned to Gervaise. 

“ He is dead,” he said. 

Death alone had stopped those feet. 

When Gervaise went back she was met at the door by 
a crowd of people, who wished to ask her questions, she 
thought. 

“ He is dead,” she said, quietly, as she moved on. 

But no one heard her t They had their own tale to 
tell then. How Poisson had nearly murdered Lantier. 
Poisson was a tiger, and he ought to have seen what was 
going on long before. And Boche said the woman had 
taken the shop, and that Lantier was, as usual, in luck 
again, for he adored tripe. 

In the meantime, Gervaise went directly to Madame 
Lerat and Madame Lorilleux, and said, faintly: 


l’assommoie. 


379 


“ He is dead — after four days of horror.” 

Then the two sisters were in duty bound to pull out 
their handkerchiefs. Their brother had lived a most dis- 
solute life, but then he was their brother. 

Boche shrugged his shoulders, and said in an audible 
voice : 

“Pshaw! it is only one drunkard the less!” 

After this day Gervaise was not always quite right in 
her mind, and it was one of the attractions of the house to 
see her act Coupeau. 

But her representations were often involuntary. She 
trembled at times from head to foot, and uttered little 
spasmodic cries. She had taken the disease in a modified 
form at Sainte- Anne’s from looking so long at her hus- 
band. But she never became altogether like him in the 
few remaining months of her existence. 

She sank lower day by day. As soon as she got a little 
money from any source whatever, she drank it away at 
once. Her landlord decided to turn her out of the room 
she occupied; and as Father Bru was discovered dead one 
day in his den under the stairs, Monsieur Marescot allowed 
her to take possession of his quarters. It was there, there- 
fore, on the old straw bed, that she lay waiting for Heath to 
come. Apparently, even Mother Earth would have none 
of her. She tried several times to throw herself out of the 
window, but Death took her by bits, as it were. In fact, 
no one knew exactly when she died, nor exactly what she 
died of. They spoke of cold and hunger. 

But the truth was she died of utter weariness of life, 


S80 


l’assommoir. 


and Father Bazonge came the day she was found dead in 
her den. 

Under his arm he carried a coffin, and he was very 
tipsy, and as gay as a lark. 

“ It is foolish to be in a hurry, because one always gets 
what one wants finally. I am ready to give you all 
your good pleasure when your time comes. Some want to 
go, and some want to stay. And here is one who wanted 
to go, and was kept waiting.” 

And when he lifted Gervaise in his great, coarse hands, 
he did it tenderly. And as he laid her gently in her 
coffin, he murmured, between two hiccoughs : 

“ It is I — my dear, it is I,” said this rough consoler of 
women. “ It is I. Be happy now, and sleep quietly, my 
dear 1 ” 


THE END. 


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Tania’s Peril. A Russian Love Story. By Henry Greville. 

Sonia. A Love Story. By Henry Greville, author of “ Dosia.” 

Lucie Rodoy. A Charming Society Novel. By Henry Greville. 

Bonne-Marie. A Tale of Normandy and Paris. By Henry Greville. 

Xenie’s Inheritance. A Tale of Russian Life. By Honry Gr6ville. 

Dournof. A Russian Story. By Henry Greville, author of “ Dosia.” 

Gabrielle; or, The House of MaurSze. By Henry Greville. 

A Friend; or, “L’Ami.” By Henry Greville, author of “Dosia.” 

Above are in paper cover, price 50 cents each, or in cloth, at $1.00 each. 

Markof, the Russian Violinist. A Russian Story. By Henry Greville. 

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T. B. PETERSON and BROTHERS’ NEW BOOKS. 


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The following books are all printed on tinted paper, and are each issued in 
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Helen’s Babies. By John Habberton, author of “ Mrs. Mayburn’s Twins. < 
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Two Ways to Matrimony; or, Is it Love? or, False Pride. 

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Sybil Brotherton. A Novel. By Mrs. Emma D. E. N. South worth. 

The History of a Parisienne. Octave Feuillet’s new and greatest work. 
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Father Tom and the Pope; or, A Night at the Vatican. Illustrated. 

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The Red Hill Tragedy. By Mrs. Emma D. E. N. Southworth. 

The American L’Assommoir. A parody on Zola’s “ L’Assommoir.” 

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MRS. E. D. E. N. SOUTHWORTH’S FAMOUS WORKS 

Complete in forty-three large duodecimo volumes, bound in morocco cloth, gilt back, 
price $1.75 each; or $75.25 a set, each set ts put up in a neat box. 

Ishmael; or, In the Depths, being Self-Made; or, Out of Depths.... $1 75 
Self- Raised; or, From the Depths. Sequel to “ Ishmael.” 1 75 


The Mother-in-Law, $1 75 

The Fatal Secret, 1 75 

How He Won Her, 1 75 

Fair Play, 1 75 

The Spectre Lover, 1 75 

Victor’s Triumph, 1 75 

A Beautiful Fiend, 1 75 

The Artist’s Love, 1 75 

A Noble Lord, 1 75 

Lost Heir of Linlithgow 1 75 

Tried for her Life, 1 75 

Cruel as the Grave, 1 75 

The Maiden Widow, 1 75 

The Family Doom, 1 75 

The Bride’s Fate, 1 75 

The Changed Brides, 1 75 

Fallen Pride, 1 75 

The Widow’s Son, 1 75 

The Bride of Llewellyn, 1 75 

The Fatal Marriage, 1 75 


The Deserted Wife, 1 75 

The Fortune Seeker, 1 75 

The Bridal Eve, 1 75 

The Lost Heiress, 1 75 

The Two Sisters, 1 75 

Lady of the Isle, 1 75 

Prince of Darkness, 1 75 

The Three Beauties,. 1 75 

Vivia; or the Secret of Power, 1 75 

Love’s Labor Won, 1 75 

The Gipsy’s Prophecy...... 1 75 

Retribution 1 75 

The Christmas Guest, 1 75 

Haunted Homestead, 1 75 

Wife’s Victory, 1 75 

All worth Abbey, 1 75 

India ; Pearl of Pearl River,.. 1 75 

Curse of Clifton, 1 75 

Discarded Daughter, 1 75 

The Mystery of Dark Hollow,.. 1 75 


The Missing Bride; or, Miriam, the Avenger, 1 75 

The Phantom Wedding; or, The Fall of the House of Flint,: 1 75 

Above are each in cloth, or each one is in paper cover, at $1.50 each. 
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MRS. CAROLINE LEE HENTZ’S WORKS. 


Complete in twelve large duodecimo volumes, bound in morocco cloth, gilt back, 
price $1.75 each; or $21.00 a set, each set is put up in a neat box. 


Ernest Linwood, 


75 

Love after Marriage 

...$1 

75 

The Planter’s Northern Bride, 

. 1 

75 

Eoline; or Magnolia Vale... 
The Lo§t Daughter, 

... 1 

75 

Courtship and Marriage, 

. 1 

75 

... 1 

75 

Rena; or, the Snow Bird, 

Marcus Warland 

. 1 

75 

The Banished Son, 

... 1 

75 

. 1 

75 

Helen and Arthur 

... 1 

75 

Linda ; or, the Young Pilot of the Belle Creole, 

... 1 

75 


Robert Graham; the Sequel to “ Linda; or Pilot of Belle Creole,”... 1 75 
Above are each in cloth, or each one is in paper cover, at $1.50 each. 


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Zola’s New Book. “Pot-Bouille. 


55 


Pot-Bouille. 


ZE33T EMILE ZOLA. 


’THE MYSTERIES OF MARSEILLES, 

»» tt 


MYSTERIES OF THE COURT OF LOUIS NAPOLEON, 
" " MAGDALEN FERAT," 


POT-BOUILLE,” “ALBINE; OR, THE ABBE'S TEMPTATION, 

\D LOVE; OR, THE ABBE AND HIS COURT," " THE 
LA BELLE LISA; OR, THE PARIS MARKET GIRLS,” BTC., ETC, 


“ Pot-Bouille ** is creating a greater sensation in Paris than either " Nana " or " L'Assommoir," 
and the American edition is published in a large square duodecimo volume, uniform with 44 Nana," 
and " L'Assommoir/' price 75 cents in paper cover, or $1.25 in cloth, and will be found for sale by all 
Booksellers, at all News Stands everywhere, and on all Railroad Trains. 


LIST OF EMILE ZOLA’S GREAT WORKS. 

Translated from the French by John Stirling. 

Pot-Bouille* By Emile Zola , author of “Nana** 44 L* Assontmoir,** etc. Pot-Bouille* 
With an Illustrated Cover. Price 75 cents in paper cover, or $1.25 in Cloth, Black and Gold. 

Xaim! The Sequel to "L'Assommoir." Nona! By Entile Zola. With a Picture of 
* 4 Nana " on the cover. Price 75 cents in paper cover, or One Dollar in Cloth, Black and Gold. 

L’Assommoir; or, Nana's Mother. By Emile Zola , author of " Nana.*' With a 
Picture of 4 t Gervaise," Nanais mother , on the cover. Price 75 cents in paper, or One Dollar in Cloth. 

Claude's Confession. By Emile Zola, author of t 4 Nana** 44 L* Assontmoir 44 Pot- 
Bouille ," “ The Girl in Scarlet ," etc. Price 75 cents in paper cover, or £1.25 in cloth. Black and Gold. 

The Mysteries of the Court of Louis Napoleon. By Emile Zola , author of 
“Nana " and 44 L* Assontmoir.** Price 75 cents in paper cover, or $1.25 in Cloth, Black and Gold. 

The Mysteries of Marseilles. By Entile Zola, author of 44 Nana** 44 L* Assontmoir ,** 
“The Girl in Scarlet'** etc. Price 75 cents in paper cover, or $1.25 in Cloth, Black and Gold. 

Albine; or. The Abbe's Temptation. By Emile Zola, author of " Nana,'* and 44 L* As- 
sommoir.** With a Picture of 44 Albine'' on the cover. Price 75 cents in paper, or $1.25 in Cloth. 

Ifllt*ne: a Love Episode; or, line Page D'Amour. By Emile Zola, author of 
“ Nana.** With a Picture of 44 Helene " on the cover. Price 75 cents in paper cover, or $1 .25 in Cloth. 

The Girl in Scarlet; or. The Loves of Silverc and Miette. By Emile Zola, 
author of 44 Nana** and 44 L'Assommoir.*' Price 75 cents in paper cover, or $1.25 in Cloth. 

Magdalen Ferat. By Emile Zola, author of 44 Nana.** With a Picture of 44 Magdalen 
Eerat " on the co 7 ter. Price 75 cents in paper cover, or $1.25 in Cloth, Black and Gold. 

A Mad Love; or. The Abbe and Mis Court. By Emile Zola, author of 44 Nana** 
and 44 L'Assommoir.** Price 75 cents in paper cover, or $1.25 in Cloth, Black and Gold. 

Th^rfcse Baquln. By Emile Zola , author of 44 Nana." With a Portrait of 44 Emile Zola** 
on the cover. Price 75 cents in paper cover, or One Dollar in Cloth, Black and Gold. 

La Belle Lisa: or. The Baris Market Girls. By Emile Zola, author of “ Nana,** 
and 44 L'Assommoir.** Price 75 cents in paper cover, or $1.25 in Cloth, Black and Gold. 

SEQUEL TO “ZOLA’S NANA.” NANA'S DAUGHTER. 

Nana's Bans’ll ter. A Continuation of and Sequel to Emile Zola's Great Realistic Novel of 
“Nana.** Price 75 cents in paper cover, or $1.00 in cloth, black and gold. 

SEE' Above Books are for sale by all Booksellers , at all News Stands everywhere, and on all Rail - 
Road Trains, or copies of any one book, or all of them, will be sent to any one, to any place , at once, 
per mail, post-paid , on remitting the price of the ones wanted in a letter to the Publishers , 

T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS, Philadelphia, Pa. 


Zola’s New Book. “A Mad Love.” 



OR, THE ABBE AND HIS COURT. 

B'Z' EMILE ZOLA. 

AUTHOR OF " NANA," " L’ASSOMMOIR ; OR, NANA’S MOTHER,” " HELENE," " THERESE RAQUIN," 

"Claude’s confession,” “the mysteries of the court of louis napoleon," 

" POT-BOUILLE," “ALBINE; OR, THE ABBE’S TEMPTATION," "MAGDALEN FERAT," 

“THE MYSTERIES OF MARSEILLES,” “THE GIRL IN SCARLET," 

"la belle lisa; OR, THE PARIS market girls," etc., etc. 


“A Mad Love ; or. The Abbe aitd His Court]' by film He Zola, is one of the most 
peculiar novels in existence. Jt teems with interest, and the stamp of its author's 
genius is on every page. The Abbe Faujas looms up as the one great character among 
a host of vividly-sketched personages, ez’ery one of whom has some strong claim to more 
than ordinary attention. The abbe is an absolute creation, a Richelieu in cunning 
and capacity, a marvel of self-control, a?id a miracle of ambition and energy. He 
comes to the town of Plassans under a cloud, and wins his way to colossal power in 
the face of overwhelming difficulties. The secret agent of Louis Napoleon, he moves 
quietly but steadily on, with not the least hesitation about sacrificing every obstacle in 
his path. From an humble priest he rises to be the cure of Saint- Saturnin church , 
and his court, a curious assemblage, is composed of the best people of the to7on. The 
abbe has a mother, who loves him to such a degree that she is willing even to rob or 
murder for his sake. The lurid picture drawn of this active and unscrupulous old 
woman is a perfect triumph of art. The love of Madame Mouret for Faujas and the 
cold manner in which the abbe repulses it are admirably depicted, as also are Monsieur 
Mouret' s insanity, the machinations of the petty cliques and the vivid and unexpected 
finale. Everything is described in Zola's minute and realistic manner. Each detail 
has its special fascination, and all the episodes are so cleverly contrived, so strong, 
original and graphic that they powerfu lly impress the mind and keep the attention 
riveted. The political incidents are well worked up, but the main attractiveness of 
the romance centres in the abbe's relations with Madame Mouret and his court and 
the gossip and events to which they give rise. The invasion of the Mouret dwelling by 
the abbl and his relatives and, its gradual absorption by them are remarkably inge- 
nious touches. It may confidently be asserted that all who read “A Mad Love; or. 
The Abbe and His Court" will find it a book difficult to lay aside until it is finished. 


Paper Cover, 75 Cents. Morocco Cloth, Gilt and Black, $1.25. 


“A Mad Love ; or. The Abbe and His Court" toil l be found for sale by all 
Booksellers, at all News Stands everywhere, and on all Railroad Trains, or copies of 
it will be sent to any one, per mail, post-paid, on remitting the price to the publishers, 

T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS, Philadelphia, Pa. 


Zola’s New Book. “La Bolle Lisa. 


s? 



OR, 

THE PARIS MARKET GIRLS. 


IB'M' EMILE ZOLA. 

AUTHOR OF "NANA," “ L’ASSOMMOIR ; OR, KAMA’S MOTHER,” “HELENE,” “ THERESE RAQUIN,” 

“Claude’s confession,” “the mysteries of the court of louis napoleon,” 

“ Por-BouiLLE,” “albine ; or, the abbe’s temptation,” “magdalen ferat,” 

“the MYSTERIES OF MARSEILLES,” “THE GIRL IN SCARLET," 

“A MAD love; OR, THE ABBE AND HIS COURT,” ETC., ETC. 


“La Belle Lisa ; or. The Paris Alarket Girls," by Emile Zola, is considered by the 
author as his best work, and it is without doubt a very remarkable novel, full of 
power and overflowing with interest. The scene is laid in Paris, and the action takes 
place mainly in and around the Halles or great markets of the city. La Belle Lisa 
is the sister of Gervaise, the heroine of “ L' Assommoir,” but, unlike her, is prosperous 
and quite a beauty. She has a rival in La Belle Normande, a young, handsome and 
impudent fshwoman of the Halles, who falls in love with Florent, a returned convict. 
The rivalry between the two women is depicted in the most spirited fashion, and affords 
an endless topic of conversation to the market girls and gossips of the quarter. Flo- 
rent is also beloved by Claire, La Belle Normande' s sister, and is the cause of many 
bitter quarrels in the family. He is made Inspector of the Alarkets, but embarks in 
politics and becomes the head of a conspiracy against the Emperor Louis Napoleon. 
The scenes in the markets are realistic in the highest degree. The conspiracy lends 
additional interest to the story, and the misfortunes of Florent are related until a great 
deal of quiet pathos. The conspirators are a strange crew, but each of them is a type 
of the peculiar and restless individuals always to be found in Paris. “La Belle 
Lisa; or. The Paris Market Girls," is full of life from beginning to end, and some 
excitement or other is always going on. Flitting through the romance is Claude Lan- 
tier, Gervaise' s son, and Nana's brother, a poor artist, who never succeeds in painting 
a picture satisfactory to himself, but is constantly planning some astonishing master- 
piece. The scenes, incidents and characters in the work are so natural and quaint 
that they photograph themselves upon the memory. Zola's hand is plainly visible in 
every line of the book, and his wonderful command of language and detail was never 
more conspicuously displayed. “La Belle Lisa " deserves to be read by everybody. 


Paper Cover, 75 Cents. Morocco Cloth, Gilt and Black, $1.25. 

“La Belle Lisa; or, The Paris Alarket Girls" will be found for sale by all 
Booksellers, at all News Stands everywhere, and on all Railroad Trains, or copies of 
it will be sent to any one, per mail, post paid, on remitting the price to the publishers, 

T. 15. PETERSON & BROTHERS, Philadelphia, Pa. 



Zola’s New Book. Claude’s Confession 


— HB 

Claude’s Confession. 

BY EMILE ZOLA. 

AUTHOR OF "NANA,” " L’ASSOMMOIR : OR, NANA’S MOTHER,” "HELENE,” "THERESE RAQUIN,” 
"THE MYSTERIES OF MARSEILLES,” "MYSTERIES OF THE COURT OF LOUIS NAPOLEON,” 

“ POT-BOUILLE,” “ALBINE; OR, THE ABBE’S TEMPTATION,” “MAGDALEN FERAT,” 

“ THE GIRL IN SCARLET,” “A MAD LOVE; OR, THE ABBE AND HIS COURT,” 

" LA BELLE LISA ; OR, THE PARIS MARKET GIRLS,” ETC., ETC. 


“ Claude's Confession by Emile Zola , is a strong, picturesque anti highly interest- 
ing novel, evidently founded on its famous author's early experience among the bohe- 
mians of Paris. It lays bare the career and vicissitudes of a struggling un iter living 
among the garrets of the Latin Quarter, and is made up of a succession of wonderfully 
graphic and striking scenes. The characters are Claude, who is, without doubt, Zola 
himself; Jacques, a law-student of a practical turn of mind ; Laurence, a Parisian 
grisette of the most pronounced type ; Marie, also a grisette, who is dying of consump- 
tion ; and Paquerette , an old woman who has led a joyous life and fondly clings to the 
remembrances of her youth. Claude wishes to lead a pure and blameless existence, but 
circumstances force him into a very different career. Laurence comes to him and he 
strives to teach her to do right, but she fails to understand him and he eventually falls 
in love with her. At every step in the downward path he feels the stings of remorse, 
but cannot help himself, for he is weak, irresolute, and under a spell that binds him as 
with an iron chain. Laurence is his evil genius, Paquerette his gay but wretched 
adviser, and Jacques a doubtful friend who comes in to play a part of a black and 
treacherous nature. The plot is slight, but well worked up, while the denouement is 
powerful and touching. The incidents are simple, though natural and telling, and the 
earnest manner in which they are narrated adds greatly to their effect. I he public 
ball scene is particularly vivid, all the characteristic details being described in Zola' s 
most tninute and realistic style. Claude's anxious watch in Marie' s sick-chamber for 
evidences of Laurence's treachery is intensely absorbing, and Marie's death, with the 
startling episodes which follow it, and the climax of the romance are unusually forci- 
ble and impressive. In fact, the reader will follow the thread of the novel from the 
first page to the last with unabated interest. “ Claude's Confession " is, in a word, an 
analysis of human feelings and human errors such as Zola alone can pmduce. It will 
be read by everybody , of course, and that it will afford much food for thought and dis- 
cussion cannot be doubted. The translation is by George D. Cox, which has been 
carefully and faithfully made, and reproduces Zola's style so completely that 
“ Claude's Confession" in English reads like an exact transc?'ipt of the original. 


Paper Cover, 75 Cents. Morocco Cloth, Gilt and Black, $1.25. 


“ Claude's Confession ” will be found for sale by all Booksellers, at all News 
Stands everywhere, and on all Railroad Trains, or copies of it will be sent to any one , 
to any place, at once, per mail, post-paid, on remitting the price to the publishers - 

T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS, Philadelphia, Pa. 


Emile Zola's Greatest Works. 


Nana and L’Assommoie. 

ZBLT EMILE ZOLA. 


AUTHOR OF “ NANA," “ L'ASSOMMOIR ," “ CLAUDE'S CONFESSION,’ 

“THE MYSTERIES OF MARSEILLES," “ MYSTERIES OF THE COURT OF LOUIS NAPOLEON,’ 
“ I’OT-BOUILLE," “ALBINE; OR, THE ADBE's TEMPTATION," “ MAGDALEN FERAT," 
“THE GIRL IN SCARLET," “A MAD love; OR, THE ABBE AND HIS COURT," 

“LA BELLE LISA; OR, THE PARIS MARKET GIRLS," ETC., ETC. 


“Nana** and “ L* Assommoir** are the greatest as well as the most wonderful and successful 
novels ever written. They have created a great sensation abroad, and have been hailed by the press 
of London, Paris, St. Petersburg, and all other cities, as the literary event of the century, over four 
hundred thousand copies of “ Nana " and “ L* Assommoir " having been sold in Paris alone. “ Nana " 
and “ L* Assommoir** are each in one volume, price 75 cents in paper cover, or One Dollar in cloth. 
Petersons * editions 0/ “ Zola's Works** are translated by John Stirling •, and are unabridged. 

LIST OF EMILE ZOLA’S GREAT WORKS. 

Translated from the French by John Stirling. 

Nana! The Sequel to “ L' Assommoir." Nana! By Emile Zola. With a Picture 0/ 
“Nana** on the cover. Price 75 cents in paper cover, or One Dollar in Cloth, Black and Gold. 

L^Assommoir; or, Nana's Mother. By Emile Zola . author of “Nana** With a 
Picture of“ Gervaise,** Nana* s mother , on the cover. Price 75 cents in paper, or One Dollar in Cloth. 

Pot-IlOllilie. By Emile Zola , author of “Nana** “ L' Assommoir/* etc. Pot-Bouille. 
With an Illustrated Cover. Price 75 cents in paper cover, or $1.25 in Cloth, Black and Gold. 

Claude’s Con fession. By Emile Zola, author of “Nana,** “ L* Assommoir ,** “ Pot- 
Bouille,** “ The Girl in Scarlet,** etc. Price 75 cents in paper cover, or 51.25 in cloth, Black and Gold. 

The mysteries of the Court of Eouis Napoleon. By Emile Zola , author of 
“Nana ** and “ L* Assommoir** Price 75 cents in paper cover, or 51.25 in Cloth. Black and Gold. 

The Ulysterles Of marseilles. By Emile Zola, author of “Nana,** “ L* Assommoir,** 
“ The Girl in Scarlet,** etc. Price 75 cents in paper cover, or $1 .25 in Cloth, Black and Gold. 

Alhinc; or. The Abbe's Temptation. By Emile Zola, author of “Nana,'* and “L* As- 
sommoir.** With a Picture 0/ “Albine** on the cover. Price 75 cents in paper, or 51.25 in Cloth, 

EI£l£ne: a Love Episode; or, EJne Page D Amour. By Emile Zola, author of 
“ Nana.’* With a Picture of “Helene** on the cover. Price 75 cents in paper cover, or $1 .25 in Cloth. 

The Girl in Scarlet; or. The Loves of Silvere and miette. By Emile Zola, 
author of “Nana,** and “ L* Assommoir/* Price 75 cents in paper cover, or 51.25 in Cloth. 

mandate 11 rerat. By Emile Zola, author of “ Nana .** With a Picture of “Magdalen 
Ferat " on the cover. Price 75 cents in paper cover, or $1.25 * n Cloth, Black ana Gold. 

A mad Love; or. The Abbe and His Court. By Emile Zola, author of “Nanay 
and “ L* Assommoir ** Price 75 cents in paper cover, or 51.25 in Cloth, Black and Gold. 

Th^r^se Kaqnin. By Emile Zola, author of “Nana ” With a Portrait of “Emile Zola " 
on the cover. Price 75 cents in paper cover, or One Dollar in Cloth, Black and Gold. 

Ea Belle Elsa: or. The Paris market Girls. Bv Emile Zola, author of “Nanay 
and “L* Assommoir.** Price 75 cents in paper cover, or 51.25 in Cloth, Black and Gold. 

SEQUEL to “ZOLA’S NANA.” NANA’S DAUGHTER. 

Nana’s Daughter. A Continuation of and Sequel to Emile Zola's Great Realistic Novel of 
“Nana/* Price 75* cents in paper cover, or 51.00 in cloth, black and gold. 

Above Books are for sale by all Booksellers, at all News Stands everywhere , and on all Rail- 
Road Trains, or copies of any one book, or all of them, 7 uill be sent to any one , to any place, at once 9 
per mail , post-paid , on remitting the price of the ones 7 vanted in a letter to the Publishers , 

T. B. PETEHSON & BROTHERS, Philadelphia, Pa. 


Zola’s New Book. Tlie Girl in Scarlet. 



OK, THE LOVES OF SILVEEE AND MIETTE. 


BIT ZEZMUXjIE! ZOLA. 

AUTHOR OF “NANA,” “ L’ASSOMMOIR ; OR, NANA’S MOTHER,” “HELENE,” “THERESE RAQUIN,” 
''THE MYSTERIES OF MARSEILLES,” “MYSTERIES OF THE COURT OF LOUIS NAPOLEON," 
“POT-BOUILLE,” "ALBINE; OR, THE ABBE’S TEMPTATION," “MAGDALEN FERAT,” 
“Claude’s confession,” “a mad love; or, the abbe and his court,” 

“ LA BELLE LISA ; OR, THE PARIS MARKET GIRLS,” ETC., ETC. 


“The Girl in Scarlet ; or, The Loves of Silvlre and Miette f by Emile Zola, has 
been awarded high praise by hosts of discerning critics. It is a touching story of a boy 
and girl who elope after an episode of a wall and well that divide, d la Cupid and 
Psyche, their respective homes, and appeals very strongly to the sense of beauty. The 
reader will particularly admire that exquisite little scene depicting the boy seizing the 
rope of the well and agitating the water which reflects the young lovers' faces and forms 
their only medium of communication, thus causing the girl's smiles to fade and tilling 
the lad with a strange fear that she is weeping. The book is a delicious love idyl, 
breathing the sweet innocence and delightful frankness of childhood. So pure, pic- 
turesque and unique a courtship has certainly never before filled the pages of a novel. 
To be sure, there is a tragical termination of this almost platonic love affair, but the 
reader accepts it as the natural sequel to the career of two young people who were but 
little lower than the angels. Louis Napoleon' s coup cfltat and the insurrection in the 
provinces which followed it are important elements of the romance, and the picture of 
Miette in her scarlet pelisse, bearing the republican flag in the midst of the insurgents, 
with the enthusiastic Silvere at her side, the old gun of the smuggler Macquart in his 
hands, is at once lurid and in the highest degree fascinating. But Zola' s greatest art 
is displayed in describing the lovers' meetings in the old cemetery of Saint- Mittre and 
their strolls into the country, the grass and flowers with their intoxicating odors in 
summer and the scenes in winter forming appropriate backgrounds, and showing con- 
clusively that the great realistic writer's love of nature is fully as strong as his passion 
for dissecting the human heart. Gervaise and Lander, of “L'Assonimoir" fame, 
figure in this novel, and the reader gleans the full particulars of their early life. All 
the characters are distinctly individualized, but, of course, Silvere and Miette stand out 
most prominently. In “ The Girl in Scarlet," the render will find that Zola can 
picture the beautiful and good as powerfully and absorbingly as he can expose vice. 


Paper Cover, 75 Cents. Morocco Cloth, Gilt and Black, $1.25. 


“ The Girl in Scarlet ” will be found for sale by all Booksellers, at all News 
Stands everywhere, and on all Railroad Trains, or copies of it will be sent to any one , 
to any place, at once, per mail, post-paid, on remitting the price to the publishers, 

T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS, Philadelphia, Pa. 


HENRY GREVILLE’S NEW BOOKS. 


SYLVIE’S BETROTHED. A Charming Love Story. By 
Henry Grbille. Price 75 cents in paper, or SI. 25 in cloth. 

TANIA’S PERIL. By Henry Greville, author of “Dosia,” 
“Sonia,” etc. Price 50 cents in paper, or $1.00 in cloth. 

DOSIA. A Russian Story. By Henry Greville, author of “ Saveli’s 
Expiation.” Price 75 cents in paper, or $1.25 in cloth. 

SAVELI’S EXPIATION. A Russian Story. By Henry Greville , 
author of “ Dosia.” Paper, 50 cents ; or $1.00 in cloth. 

THE PRINCESS OGHEROF. A Russian Love Story. By 
Henry Greville. Price 75 cents in paper, or $1.00 in cloth. 

SONIA. A Russian Story. By Henry Greville , author of “ Saveli’s 
Expiation.” Price 50 cents in paper, or $1.00 in cloth. 

THE TRIALS OF RAISSA. By Henry Grbille, author of 
“ Dosia.” Price 75 cents in paper, or $1.00 in cloth. 

BONNE-MARIE. A Tale of Normandy and Paris. By Henry 
Grbille. Price 50 cents in paper, or $1.00 in cloth. 

PHILO MENE’S MARRIAGES. By Henry Grbille, author 
of “ Dosia.” Price 75 cents in paper, or $1.25 in cloth. 

XENIE’S INHERITANCE. A Russian Story. By Henry 
Grbille. Price 50 cents in paper, or $1.00 in cloth. 

PRETTY LITTLE COUNTESS ZINA. By Henry 
Grbille, author of “ Dosia.” Paper, 75 cents; cloth, $1.25. 

GABRIELLE; or, The House of Maureze. By Henry 
Grbille. Price 50 cents in paper, or $1.00 in cloth. 

MARRYING OFF A DAUGHTER. By Henry Grbille, 
author of “ Dosia.” Paper, 75 cents; or $1.25 in cloth. 

DOURNOF. A Russian Novel. Paper cover, 50 cents; cloth, $1.00. 

LUCIE RODE Y. By Henry Grbille. Paper, 50 cents ; cloth, $1.00. 

A FRIEND. By Henry Grbille. Paper, 50 cents; cloth, $1.00. 

MARKOF. A Russian Novel. By Henry Grbille, author of 
“Saveli’s Expiation.” Paper, 75 cents; or in cloth, $1.50. 


T* Above Books are for sale by all Booksellers, at all News Stands everywhere, and 
on all Bail- Road Trains, or copies of any one, or all of the books, will be sent to any one, 
at once, per mail, post-paid, on remitting the price of the ones wanted to the Publishers, 

T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS, Philadelphia, Pa. 


Zola’s New 


Unabridged Editions, Translated by John Stirling. 


NANA! Sequel to “ L’Assommoir.” NANA! By Emile Zola. 
With Illustrated Cover. Paper cover, 75 cents; cloth, 81.00. 

L’ASSOMMOIR; or, NANA’S MOTHER. By Emile Zola. 
With an Illustrated Cover . Paper cover, 75 cents ; cloth, 81.00. 

POT-BOUILLE. By Emile Zola. POT-BOUILLE. By 

author of “Nana. Paper cover, 75 cents; cloth, 81.25. 

CLAUDE’S CONFESSION. By Emile Zola , author of “Nana ” 
and “L’Assommoir.” Paper cover, 75 cents; cloth, 81.25. 

THE MYSTERIES OF THE COURT OF LOUIS 
NAPOLEON. By Emile Zola. Paper, 75 cents; cloth, 81.25. 

THE MYSTERIES OF MARSEILLES. By Emile Zola, 
author of “Nana.” Paper cover, 75 cents; cloth, 81.25. 

THE GIRL IN SCARLET; or, The Loves of Silvere 

and Miette. By Emile Zola. Paper, 75 cents ; cloth, 81.25. 

ALBINE ; or, The Abbe’s Temptation. By Em, He Zola, 
author of “Nana.” Paper cover, 75 cents ; cloth, 81.25. 

A MAD LOVE; or, The Abbe and His Court. By 

Emile Zola , author of “Nana.” Paper, 75 cents; cloth, $1.25. 

HELENE; or, Une Page D’ Amour. By Emile Zola. With 
an Illustrated Cover. Paper cover, 75 cents; cloth, 81.25. 

LA BELLE LISA; or, The Paris Market Girls. By 

Emile Zola, author of “Nana.” Paper, 75 cents; cloth, 81.25. 

MAGDALEN FERAT. By Emile Zola. With a Portrait of 
“Magdalen Ferat ” on cover. Paper cover, 75 cents ; cloth, 81.25. 

THERESE RAQUIN. By Emile Zola. With a Portrait of 
“Emile Zola ” on cover. Paper cover, 75 cents; cloth, 81.00. 

NANA’S DAUGHTER. Sequel to “ZOLA’S NANA.”’ 

With Illustrated Cover. Paper cover, 75 cents; cloth, 81.00. 

Above Books are for sale by all Booksellers , at all News Stands everywhere , and 
on all Bail-Road Trains, or copies of any one, or all of them, will be sent to any one, at 
once, per mail, post-paid, on remitting the price of the ones wanted to the Publishers, 

To B. PETERSON & BROTHERS, Philadelphia, Pa. 

LB JL ’07 


Books. 


Emile 


PETERSONS’ NEW BOOKS: 


JJ&8* The following New Books are printed on tinted paper, and are each issued in uniform 
style, in square 12 mo. form. They are the best and most charming Novels ever printed. 


Following are 75 Cents each in paper cover, or $1.25 each in cloth. 

A WOMAN’S PERILS; or, DRIVEN FROM HOME. By Mrs. J. C. Cook, of Columbus, Ga. 
A FASCINATING WOMAN. A Charming Story. By Madame Edmond Adam. 

LA FAUSTIN. A Thrilling Novel of Real Life. By Edmond de Goncourt. 

MONSIEUR LE MINISTRE. A Romance in Real Life. By Jules Claretie. 

A CHILD OF ISRAEL. A Romance of the Heart. By Edouard Cadol. 

WINNING THE BATTLE; or, ONE GIRL IN 10,000. By Mary Von-Erden Thomas. 
THE FATAL MARRIAGE. By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth, author of “Self-Made.” 
INDIANA! A Charming Love Story. By George Sand, author of “ Consuelo.” 

THE INITIALS. A. Z. A Story of Modern Life. By The Baroness Tautphoeus. 

THE BRIDAL EVE; or, ROSE ELMER. By Mrs. Southworth, author of “ Self-Made.” 
LINDA ; THE YOUNG PILOT OF THE BELLE CREOLE. By Mrs. Caroline Lee Hentz. 
CAMILLE; or, THE FATE OF A COQUETTE. ( u La Dame Aux Camelias.”) By Dumas. 
PAUL HART; or, THE LOVE OF HIS LIFE. An American Story of Real Life. 

THE COUNT DE CAMORS ; or, THE MAN OF THE SECOND EMPIRE. By O. Feuillet. 
HOW SHE WON HIM; or, THE BRIDE OF CHARMING VALLEY. A Love Story. 
ANGELE'S FORTUNE. A Charming and Absorbing Story in Real Life. By Andre Theuriet. 
ST. MAUR; or, AN EARL’S WOOING. A Society Novel. By a Noted Southerner. 

Following are 75 Cents each in paper cover, or $1.00 each in cloth. 

THE WOMAN IN BLACK. Being the Story of a Handsome and Ambitious Woman. 
MADAME BOVARY. By Gustave Flaubert. Being his suppressed work. 

MILDRED’S CADET; or, HEARTS AND BELL-BUTTONS. An Idyl of West Point. 
BELLAH. A Charming Love Story. By Octave Feuillet, author of “ Count De Camors.” 
SABINE’S FALSEHOOD. A Pure and Touching Love Story. By the Princess Olga. 
MONSIEUR, MADAME, AND THE BABY. By Gustave Droz, author of “ Bertha’s Bab) .” 
THE EXILES. A Russian Love Story. By Victor Tissot and Constant Amero. 

MAJOR JONES'S COURTSHIP. With 21 Illustrations. By Major Joseph Jones. 

MAJOR JONES’S GEORGIA SCENES. With 12 Illustrations. By Major Joseph Jones. 
MAJOR JONES’S TRAVELS. With 8 Illustrations. By Major Joseph Jones. 

SIMON SUGGS’ ADVENTURES. With 10 Illustrations. By Major Joseph Jones. 
LOUISIANA SWAMP DOCTOR. With 6 Illustrations. By Major Joseph Jones. 

MY HERO. A Strong and Captivating Love Story. By Mrs. Forrester. 

VID0CQ' THE FRENCH DETECTIVE. With his Portrait and Other Illustrations. 

THE EARL OF MAYFIELD. A Charming Love Story. By Thomas P. May. 

THE BLACK VENUS. A Tale of the Dark Continent. By Adolphe Belot. 

LA GRANDE FL0RINE. A Charming Love Story. By Adolphe Belot. 

THE STRANGLERS OF PARIS. A Fascinating Romance. By Adolphe Belot. 

jpar- Above Books are for sale by all Booksellers and News Agents, or copies of any one or 
all of them, will be sent to any one, at once, post-paid, on remitting price to the publishers, 

T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS, Philadelphia, Pa. 


r tiiifltsui^ »' a Hi in ijuujv s. 


The following New Books are printed on tinted paper, and are each issued in uniform 
style, in square 12 mo. form. They are the best and most entertaining Novels ever printed. 


EMILE ZOLA’S NEW IDEALISTIC WORKS. V 

NANA! Sequel to “ L’Assommoir.” By Emile Zola, author of “ Pot-Bouille.” NANA! 

Price 75 cents in paper cover, or $1.00 in morocco cloth, black and gold. NANA ! 
L’ASSOMMOIR; or, NANA’S MOTHER. By Emile Zola. The Greatest Novel ever printed. 

Price 75 cents in paper cover, or $1.00 in cloth, black and gold. 

NANA’S DAUGHTER. “ Nana’s Daughter” is a Continuation of and Sequel to Emile Zola’s 
Great Realistic Novel of “ Nana.” Price 75 cents in paper cover, or $1.00 in cloth. 
POT-BOUILLE. By Emile Zola, author of “ Nana,” “ L’Assommoir,” etc. POT-BOUILLE. 

Price 75 cents in paper cover, or $1.25 in morocco cloth, black and gold. 

CLAUDE’S CONFESSION. By Emile Zola, author of “Nana,” “L’Assommoir,” “Pot- 
Bouille,” “ The Girl in Scarlet,” etc. Price 75 cents in paper cover, or $1.25 in cloth. 
THE MYSTERIES* OF THE COURT OF LOUIS NAPOLEON. Its intrigues, vices, etc. By 
Emile Zola. Price 75 cents in paper cover, or $1.25 in cloth, black and gold. 

THE MYSTERIES OF MARSEILLES. A Charming Love Story.; By Emile Zola, author 
of “ Nana.” Price 75 cents in paper cover, or $1.25 in cloth, black and gold. 

THE GIRL IN SCARLET.; or, THE LOVES OF SILVERE AND MIETTE. By Emile 
Zola. Price 75 cents in paper cover, or $1.25 in cloth, black and gold. 

ALBINE; or, THE ABBE’-S TEMPTATION. A Love Story. By Emile Zola, author of 
“ The Girl in Scarlet.” Price 75 cents in paper cover, or $1.25 in cloth, black and gold. 
A MAD LOVE; or, THE ABBE AND HIS COURT. By Emile Zola, author of “ Nana.” 

Price 75 cents in paper cover, or $1.25 in cloth, black and gold. 

HELENE, A LOVE EPISODE; or, UNE PAGE D’AMOUR. By Emile Zola, author of 
“ Nana,” “ L’Assommoir,” etc. Price 75 cents in paper cover, or $1.25 in morocco cloth. 
LA BELLE LISA; or, THE PARIS MARKET GIRLS. By Emile Zola, author of “ Nana.” 

Price 75 cents in paper cover, or $1.25 in morocco cloth, black and gold. 

MAGDALEN FERAT. By Emile Zola. Trice 75 cents in paper cover, or $1.25 in cloth. 
THERESE RAQUIN. By Emile Zola. Price 75 cents in paper cover, or $1.00 in cloth. 

HENRY GREVILLE’S NEW AND CHARMING NOVELS. 
Price 15 Cents each in paper cover, or $1.25 each in cloth. 

SYLVIE’S BETROTHED. A Charming Novel. By Henry Greville. 

DOSIA. A Russian Story. By Henry Greville, author of “Saveli’s Expiation.” 

THE TRIALS OF RAISSA. A Russian Love Story. By Henry Greville, author of “ Dosia,” 
THE PRINCESS OGHEROF. A Russian Love Story. By Henry Greville. 

PHIL0M£NE’S MARRIAGES. A Love Story. By Henry Greville, author of “Dosia.” 
PRETTY LITTLE COUNTESS ZINA. A Russian Story. By Henry Greville, -author of “ Dosia.” 
MARRYING OFF A DAUGHTER. A Love Story. By Henry Greville , author of “Dosia.” 
Above are 4n paper cover, price 75 cents each, or in cloth, at $1.25 each. 

MARKOF. A Ru|jsian^trjy.^/?y Henry Greville. Paper cover, 75 cents ; cloth, $1.50. 
JARL'S DAUGHTER. By Mrs. Frances Hodgson, Burnett. Paper cover, price 25 cents. 
LINDSAY’S LUCK. By Mrs. Frances Hodgson Burnett. Paper cover, price 25 cents. 

JIBS" Above Books are for sale by all Booksellers and Neivs Agents, or copies of any one or 
all of them, will be sent to any one, at once, post-paid, on remitting price to the publishers, 

T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS, Philadelphia, Pa. 









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